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THE AMERICAN SENATOE. 



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By ANTHONY TROLLOPE, 



AUTHOR OF 



"THE PRIME MINISTER," "THE WARDE]^," "BARCHESTER TOWERS," "ORLEY FARM," 

"THE SMALL HOUSE AT ALLINGTON," "THE WAY WE LIVE NOW," "CAN 

YOU FORGIVE HER?" "PHINEAS FINN," "PMiiP®4S_^DUX," &c. 



M0. 



^Oib BY 



Ifmcmiis IjBnAii 





^ NEW YO RK: 

HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, 



FRANKLIN SQUARE. 



1877. 






Anthony Trollope's Works. 



Mr. Trollope's charnctera are drawn with an outline fir: 
in society are very keen. — Boston Congregationalist, 



, bold, strong. His side-thrnsts at some of the lies which pass current 



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The American Senator. 



CHAPTER I. 

D I L L S B O K O TJ G H . 

I NEVER could understand why any body 
should ever have begun to live at Dillsbor- 
ough, or why the population there should have 
been at any time recruited by new-comers. That 
a man Vvith a family should cling to a house in 
which he has once established himself is intelli- 
gible. The butcher who supplied Dillsborough, 
or the baker, or the iron-monger, though he might 
not drive what is called a roaring trade, neverthe- 
less found himself probably able to live, and might 
well hesitate before he would encounter the dan- 
gers of a more energetic locality. But how it 
came to pass that he first got himself to Dills- 
borough, or his father, or his grandfather before 
him, has always been a mystery to me. The 
town has no attractions, and never had any. It 
does not stand on a bed of coal, and has no con- 
nection whatever with iron. It has no water 
peculiarly adapted for beei", or for dyeing, or for 
the cure of maladies. It is not surrounded by 
beauty of scenery strong enough to bring tourists 
and holiday travelers. There is no cathedral 
there to form, with its bishops, prebendaries, and 
minor canons, the nucleus of a clerical circle. 
It manufactures nothing specially. It has no 
great horse fair, or cattle fair, or even pig mar- 
ket, of special notoriety. Every Saturday, farmers 
and graziers and buyers of corn and sheep do 
congregate in a sleepy fashion about the streets ; 
but Dillsborough has no character of its own, 
even as a market-town. Its chief glory is its 
parish church, which is ancient and inconvenient, 
having not as yet received any of those modern 
improvements which have of late become com- 
mon throughout England ; but its parish church, 
though remarkable, is hardly celebrated. The 
town consists chiefly of one street, which is over 
a mile long, with a square or market-place in 
the middle, round which a few lanes with queer 
old names are congregated, and a second small 
open, space among these lanes, in which the 
church stands. As you pass along the street 
north-west, away from the railway-station 'and 
from London, there is a stout hill, beginning to 
rise just beyond the market-place. Up to that 
point it is the High Street, thence it is called 
Bullock's Hill. Beyond that, you come to Nor- 
rington Road — Norrington being the next town, 
distant from Dillsborough about twelve miles. 
Dillsborough, however, stands in the county of 
Rufford ; whereas at the top of Bullock's Hill you 



enter the county of Ufford, of which Norrington 
is the assize town. The Dillsborough people are 
therefore divided, some two thousand five hun- 
dred of them belonging to Rufford, and the re- 
maining five hundred to the neighboring county. 
This accident has given rise to not a few feuds, 
Uiford being a large county, with pottery, and 
ribbons, and watches going on in the farther 
confines; whereas Ruftbrd is small and thor- 
oughly agricultural. The men at the top of 
Bullock's Hill are therefore disposed to think 
themselves better than their fellow -townsfolks, 
though they are small in number, and not spe- 
cially thriving in their circumstances. 

At every interval often years, when the census 
is taken, the population of Dillsborough is al- 
ways found to have fallen off in some slight de- 
gree. Eor a few months after the publication 
of the figures a slight tinge of melancholy comes 
upon the town. The landlord of The Bush Inn, 
who is really an enterprising man in his way, and 
who has looked about in every direction for new 
sources of business, becomes taciturn for a while, 
and forgets to smile upon comers. Mr. Ribbs, 
the butcher, tells his wife that it is out of the 
question that she and the children should take 
that long -talked- of joiu-ney to the sea -coast. 
And Mr. Gregory Masters, the well-known old- 
established attorney of Dillsborough, whispers tc 
some confidential friend that he might as wel] 
take down his plate and shut up his house. Bui 
in a month or two all that is forgotten, and nevt 
hopes spring up even in Dillsborough. Mr. 
Runciman at The Bush is putting up new stable;: 
for hunting-horses, that being the special tradf 
for which he now finds that there is an opening, 
Mrs. Ribbs is again allowed to suggest Mare- 
Slocumb ; and Mr. Masters goes on as he has 
done for the last forty years, making the best h( 
can of a decreasing business. 

Dillsborough is built chiefly of brick, and is, iv 
its own way, solid enough. The Bush, which ir 
the time of the present landlord's father was on( 
of the best posting inns on the road, is not onh 
substantial, but almost handsome. A broac 
•coach-way, cut through the middle of the house, 
leads into a spacious, well-kept, clean yard, anc 
on each side of the coach-way there are bay 
windows looking into the street — the one belong 
ing to the commercial parlor, and the other t> 
the so-called coft'ee-room. But the cofFee-roon 
has in truth fallen away from its former purposes 
and is now used for a farmer's ordinary on mar 
ket-days, and other similar purposes. Traveler 



THE AMEKICAN SENATOR. 



who require the use of a public sitting-room 
must all congregate in the commercial parlor at 
The Bush. So far the interior of the house has 
fallen from its past greatness. But the exterior 
is maintained with much care. The brick-work 
up to the eaves is well pointed, fresh, and com- 
fortable to look at. In front of the carriage-way 
swings, on two massive supports, the old sign of 
The Bush, as to which it may be doubted wheth- 
er even Mr. Runciman himself knows that it has 
swung there, or been displayed in some fashion, 
since it was the custom for the landlord to beat 
up wine to freshen it before it was given to the 
customers to drink. The church, too, is of brick, 
though the tower and chancel are of stone. 
The attorney's house is of brick — which shall not 
be more particularly desciibed now, as many of 
the scenes which these pages will have to describe 
were acted there; and almost the entire High 
Street in the centre of the town was brick also. 

But the most remarkable house in Dillsborough 
was one standing in a short thoroughfare called 
Hobbs Gate, leading down by the side of The 
Bush Inn from the market-place to Church 
Square, as it is called. As you pass down to- 
ward the church this house is on the right hand, 
and it occupies with its garden the whole space 
between the market-place and Church Square. 
But though the house enjoys the privilege of a 
large garden — so large that the land, being in 
the middle of the town, would be of great value 
were it not that Dillsborough is in its decadence 
— still, it stands flush up to the street upon which 
the front door opens. It has an imposing flight 
of stones steps, guarded by iron rails leading up 
to it, and on each side of the door there is a row 
of three windows, and on the two upper stories 
rows of seven windows. Over the door there is 
a covering, on which there are, grotesquely form- 
ed, carved wooden faces ; and over the centre of 
each window, let into the brick-work, is a carved 
stone. There are also numerous under-ground 
windows, sunk below the earth and protected by 
iron railings. Altogether the house is one which 
can not fail to attract attention ; and in the 
brick-work is clearly marked the date, 1701 — 
not the very best pei^iod for English architecture 
as regards beauty, but one in which walls and 
roofs, ceilings and buttresses, were built more 
substantially than they are to-day. This was the 
only house in Dillsborough which had a name 
of its own, and it was called Hoppet Hall, the 
Dillsborough chronicles telling that it had been 
originally built for and inhabited by the Hoppet 
family. The only Hoppet now left in Dills- 
borough is old Joe Hoppet, the hostler at The 
Bush ; and the house, as was well known, had 
belonged to some member of the Morton family 
for the last hundred years at least. The garden 
and ground it stands upon comprise three acres, 
all of which are surrounded by a high brick wall, 
ivhich is supposed to be coeval with the house. 
The best Ribstone pippins — some people say the 
only real Ribstone pippins — in all Rutford are to 
be found here, and its Burgundy pears and 
.valnuts are almost equally celebrated. There 
ire rumors also that its roses beat every thing in 
.he way of roses for ten miles round. But in 
hese days very few strangers are admitted to 
iee the Hoppet Hall roses. The pears and ap- 
ples do make their way out, and are distributed 
;ither by Mrs. Masters, the attorney's wife, or 



Mr. Runciman, the innkeeper. The present oc- 
cupier of the house is a certain Mrs, Reginald 
Morton, with whom we shall also be much con- 
cerned in these pages, but«whose introduction to 
the reader shall be postponed for a while. 

The land around Dillsborough is chiefly owned 
by two landlords, of whom the greatest and rich- 
est is Lord Rufford. He, however, does not live 
near the town, but away at the other side of the 
county, and is not much seen in these parts un- 
less when the hounds bring him here, or when, 
with two or three friends, he will sometimes stay 
for a few days at The Bush Inn for the sake of 
shooting the coverts. He is much liked by all 
sporting-men, but is not otherwise very popular 
with the people round Dillsborough. A land- 
lord, if he wishes to be popular, should be seen 
frequently. If he lives among his faimers, they 
will swear by him, even though he raises his 
rental every ten or twelve years, and never puts 
a new roof to a barn for them. Lord RuflTord is 
a rich man, who thinks of nothing but sport in 
all its various shapes, from pigeon-shooting at 
Hurlingham to the slaughter of elephants in Af- 
rica ; and, though he is lenient in all his dealings, 
is not much thought of in the Dillsborough side 
of the county, except by those who go out with 
the hounds. At Ruff"ord, where he generally has 
a full house for three months in the year and 
spends a vast amount of money, he is more high- 
ly considered. 

The other extensive landlord is Mr. John 
Morton j a yoimg man who, in spite of his position 
as squire of Bragton, owner of Bragton Park, 
and landlord of the entire parishes of Bragton 
and Mallingham — the latter of which comes 
close up to the confines of Dillsborough — Avas, at 
the time of which our story begins. Secretary of 
Legation at Washington. As he had been an 
absentee since he came of age, soon after which 
time he inherited the property, he had been al- 
most less liked in the neighborhood than the 
lord. Indeed, no one in Dillsborough knew 
much about him, although Bragton Hall was but 
four miles from the town, and the Mortons had 
possessed the property and lived on it for the last 
three centuries. But there had been extrava- 
gance, as will hereafter have to be told, and 
there had been no continuous residence at Brag- 
ton since the death of old Reginald Morton, who 
had been the best known and the best loved 
of all the squires in Rufford, and had for many 
years been master of the Ruff'ord hounds. He 
had lived to a very great age, and, though the 
great-grandfather of the present man, had not 
been dead above twenty years. He was the man 
of whom the older inhabitants of Dillsborough 
and the neighborhood still thought and still spoke 
when they gave vent to their feelings in favor of 
gentlemen. And yet the old squire in his latter 
days had been able to do little or nothing for 
them, being sometimes backward as to the pay- 
ment of money he owed among them. But he 
had lived all his days at Bragton Park, and his 
figure had been familiar to all eyes in the High 
Street of Dillsborough and at the front entrance 
of The Bush. People still spoke of old fllr. 
Reginald Morton as though his death had been 
a sore loss to the neighborhood. 

And there were in the country round sundry 
yeomen, as they ought to be called — gentlemen- 
farmers as they now like to style themselves^ 



THE AMEKICAN SENATOE. 



men who owned some acres of land, and fanned 
these acres themselves. Of these we may spe- 
cially mention Mi'. Lawrence Twentyman, who 
was quite the gentleman-farmer. He possessed 
over three hundred acres of land, oa which his 
father had built an excellent house. The pres- 
ent Mr. Twentyman — Lawrence Twentyman, 
Esquire, as he was called by every body — was 
by no means unpopular in the neighborhood. 
He not only rode well to hounds, but paid twen- 
ty-five pounds annually to the hunt, whicii enti- 
tled him to feel quite at home in his red coat. 
He generally owned a racing colt or two, and 
attended meetings ; but was supposed to know 
what he was about, and to have kept safely the 
five or six thousand pounds which his father had 
left him. And his farming was well done ; for 
though he was out-and-out a gentleman-farmer, 
he knew how to get the full worth in work done 
for the fourteen shillings a week which he paid 
to his laborers — a deficiency in which knowledge 
is the cause why gentlemen in general find farm- 
ing so very expensive an amusement. He was a 
handsome, good-looking man of about thii-ty, and 
would have been a happy man had he not been 
too ambitious in his aspirations after gentry. 
He had been at school for three years at Chel- 
tenham College, which, together with his money 
and appearance and undoubted freehold proper- 
ty, should, he thought, have made his position 
quite secure to him ; but, though he sometimes 
called young Hampton of Hampton "Dick 
Hampton," and the son of the rector of Dillsbor- 
ough " Mainwaring," and always called the rich 
young brewers from Norrington "Botsey" — 
partners in the well-known firm of Billbrook & 
Botsey; and though they in return called him 
" Larry " and admitted the intimacy, still he did 
not get into their houses. And Lord Eufford, 
when he came into the neighborhood, never asked 
him to dine at The Bush. And, worst of all, 
some of the sporting men and others in the neigh- 
borhood, who decidedly were not gentlemen, also 
called him " Larry." Mr. Runciraan always did 
so. Twenty or twenty-five years ago Runciman 
had been his father's special friend — befoi-e the 
house had been built, and before the days at 
Cheltenham College. Remembering this, Law- 
rence was too good a fellow to rebuke Runci- 
man ; but to younger men of that class he would 
sometimes make himself objectionable. There 
was another keeper of hunting-stables, a younger 
man, named Stubbings, living at Stanton Corner, 
a great hunting rendezvous about four miles from 
Dillsborough ; and not long since Twentyman 
had threatened to lay his whip across Stubbings's 
shoulders if Stubbings ever called him "Larry" 
again. Stubbings, who was a little man and 
rode races, only laughed at Mr. Twentyman, who 
was six feet high, and told the story round to all 
the hunt. Mr. Twentyman was more laughed 
at than perhaps he deserved. A man should not 
have his Christian name used by every Tom and 
Dick without his sanction. But the diSiculty is 
one to which men in the position of Mr. Law- 
rence Twentyman are very subject. 

Those whom I have named, together with Mr. 
Mainwaring the rector, and Mr. Surtees his cu- 
rate, made up the very sparse aristocracy of 
Dillsborough. The Hamptons of Hampton West 
were UfFord men, and belonged rather to Nor- 
rington than Dillsborough. The Botseys, also 



from Norrington, were members of the U. R. U., 
or UfFord and RufFord United Hunt Club ; but 
they did not much affect Dillsborough as a town. 
Mr. Mainwaring, who has been mentioned, lived 
in another brick house behind the church — the 
old parsonage of St. John's. There was also a 
Mrs. Mainwaring, but she was an invalid. Their 
family consisted of one son, who was at Brase- 
nose at this time. He always had a horse dur- 
ing the Christmas vacation, and, if rumor did not 
belie him, kept two or three up at Oxford. Mr. 
Surtees, the curate, lived in lodgings in the town. 
He was a painstaking, eager, clever young man, 
with aspirations in church matters, which were 
always being checked by his rector. Quieta non 
movere was the motto by which the rector gov- 
erned his life, and he certainly was not at all the 
man to allow his curate to drive him into ac- 
tivity. 

Such, at the time of our story, was the little 
town of Dillsborough. 



CHAPTER II. 



THE MORTON FAMILY. 



I CAN hardly describe accurately the exact po- 
sition of the Masters family without first telling 
all that I know about the Morton family ; and it 
is absolutely .essential that the reader should 
know all the Masters family intimately. M^. 
Masters, as I have said in the last chapter, was 
the attorney in Dillsborough, and the Mortons 
had been for centuries past the squires of Brag- 
ton. 

I need not take the reader back farther than 
old Reginald Morton. He had come to the 
throne of his family as a young man, and had 
sat upon it for more than half a centmy. He 
had been a squire of the old times, having no in- 
clination for London seasons, never wishing to 
keep up a second house, quite content with his 
position as squire of Bragton, but with consider- 
able pride about him as to that position. He 
had always liked to have his house full, and had 
hated petty economies. He had for many years 
hunted the county at his own expense, the amuse- 
ment at first not having been so expensive as it 
afterward became. When he began the work, 
it had been considered sufiicient to hunt twice 
a week. Now the RufFord and UfFord hounds 
have four days, and sometimes a by. It went 
much against Mr. Reginald Morton's pride when 
he was first driven to take a subscription. 

But the temporary distress into which the fam- 
ily fell had been caused not so much by his own 
extravagance as by that of two sons, and by his 
indulgence in regard to them. Pie had had three 
children, none of whom were very fortunate in 
life. The eldest, John, had married the daugh- 
ter of a peer, stood for Parliament, had one son, 
and died before he was thirty, owing something 
over twenty thousand pounds. The estate was 
then Avorth seven thousand pounds a year. Cer- 
tain lands, not lying either in Bragton or Mal- 
lingham, were sold, and that difficulty was sur- 
mounted, not without a considerable diminution 
of income. In process of time the grandson, 
who Avas a second John Morton, grew up and 
married, and became the father of a third John 
Morton, the young man who afterward became 



10 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



owner of the property and Secretary of Legation 
at Washington. But the old squire outlived his 
son and his grandson, and, when he died, had 
three or four great-grandchildren playing about 
the lawns of Bragton Park. The peer's daugh- 
ter had lived, and had for many years drawn a 
dower from the Bragton property, and had been 
altogether a very heavy incumbrance. 

But the great trial of the old man's life, as also 
the great romance, had arisen from the career 
of his second son, Reginald. Of all his chil- 
dren, Reginald had been the dearest to him. 
He went to Oxford, and had there spent much 
money; not as young men now spend money, 
but still to an extent that had been grievous to 
the old squire. But every thing was always 
paid for Reginald. It was necessary, of course, 
that he should have a profession, and he took a 
commission in the army. As a young man he 
went to Canada. This was in 1829, when all 
the world was at peace, and his only achieve- 
ment in Canada was to marry a young woman 
who is reported to have been pretty and good, 
but who had no advantages either of fortune or 
birth. She was, indeed, the daughter of a bank- 
rupt innkeeper in Montreal. Soon after this he 
sold out and brought his wife home to Bragton. 
It was at this period of the squire's life that the 
romance spoken of occurred. John Morton, the 
brother with the aristocratic wife, was ten or 
twelve years older than Reginald, and at this 
time lived chiefly at Bragton when he was not in 
town. He was, perhaps, justified in regarding 
Bragton as almost belonging to him, knowing as 
he did that it must belong to him after his fa- 
ther's life-time, and to his son after him. His 
anger against his brother was hot, and that of 
his wife still hotter. He himself had squander- 
ed thousands, but, then, he was the heir. Regi- 
nald, who was only a younger brother, had sold 
his commission. And then he had done so 
much more than this ! He had married a wom- 
an who was not a lady! John Avas clearly of 
opinion that at any rate the wife should not be 
admitted into Bragton House. The old squire 
in those days was not a happy man ; he had 
never been very strong-minded, but now he was 
strong enough to declare that his house- door 
should not be shut against a son of his, or a 
son's wife, as long as she was honest. Here- 
upon the Honorable Mrs. Morton took her de- 
parture, and was never seen at Bragton again in 
the old squire's time. Reginald Morton came 
to the house, and soon afterward another little 
Reginald was born at BragtonPark. This hap- 
pened as long ago as 1835, twenty years before 
the death of the old squire. 

But there had been another child, a daughter, 
who had come between the two sons, still living 
in those days, who will become known to any 
reader who will have patience to follow these 
pages to the end. She maiTied, not very early 
in life, a certain Sir William Ushant, who was 
employed by his country for many years in In- 
dia and elsewhere, but who found, soon after his 
marriage, that the service of his country required 
that he should generally leave his wife at Brag- 
ton. As her fiither had been for many years a 
widower. Lady Ushant became the mistress of 
the house. 

But death was very busy with the Mortons. 
Almost every one died, except the squire him- 



self and his daughter, and that honorable dow- 
ager, with her income and her pride, who could 
certainly very well have been spared. When at 
last, in 1855, the old squire went, full of years, 
full of respect, but laden also with debts and 
money troubles, not only had his son John, and 
his grandson John, gone before him, but Regi- 
nald and his wife were both lying in Bragton 
church-yard. 

The elder branch of the family, John, the great- 
grandson, and his little sisters, were at once tak- 
en away from Bragton by the honorable grand- 
mother. John, who was then about seven years 
old, was of course the young squire, and was the 
owner of the property. The dowager, therefore, 
did not undertake an altogether unprofitable bur- 
den. Lady Ushant was left at the house, and 
with Lady Ushant, or rather immediately sub- 
ject to her care, young Reginald Morton, who 
was then nineteen years of age, and who was 
about to go to Oxford. But there immediately 
sprung up family lawsuits, instigated by the hon- 
orable lady on behalf of her grandchildren, of 
which Reginald Morton was the object. The 
old man had left certain outlying properties to 
his grandson Reginald, of which Hoppet Hall 
was a part. For eight or ten years the lawsuit 
was continued, and much money was expended. 
Reginald was at last successful, and became the 
undoubted owner of Hoppet Hall ; but in the 
mean time he went to Germany for his educa- 
tion instead of to Oxford, and remained abroad 
even after the matter was decided— living, no 
one but Lady Ushant knew Avhere, or after what 
fashion. 

When the old squire died, the children were 
taken away, and Bragton Avas nearly deserted. 
The young heir was brought up with every cau- 
tion, and, under the auspices of his grandmother 
and her family, behaved himself very unlike the 
old Mortons. He Avas educated at Eton, after 
leaA'ing Avhich he was at once examined for For- 
eign Oifice employment, and commenced his 
career with great eclat. He had been made to 
understand clearly that he could not enter in 
upon his squirearchy early in life. The estate 
when he came of age had already had some years 
to recover itself, and, as he Avent from capital to 
capital, he Avas quite content to draAv from it an 
income Avhich enabled him to shine Avith peculiar 
brilliance among his brethren. He had A'isited 
Bragton once since the old squire's death, and 
had found the place very dull and uninviting. 
He had no ambition Avhatever to be master of 
the U. R. U. ; but did look forward to a time 
Avhen he might be minister jjlenipotentiary at 
some foreign court. 

For many years after the old man's death. 
Lady Ushant, Avho Avas then a Avidow,was alloAV- 
ed to liA-e at Bragton. She Avas herself childless, 
and, being now robbed of her great-nephews and 
nieces, took a little girl to live Avith her, named 
Mary Masters. It Avas a very desolate house in 
those days, but the old lady Avas careful as to 
the education of the child, and did her best to 
make the home happy for her. Some two or 
three years before the commencement of tliis 
story there rose a difference betAveen the man- 
ager of the property and Lady Ushant, and she 
was made to understand, after some half-courte- 
ous manner, that Bragton house and park Avould 
do bette» without her. There Avould be no long- 



THE AMERICAN SENATOI^ 



11 



er any cows kept, and painters must come into 
the house, and there were difficulties about fuel. 
She was not turned out, exactly ; but she went 
and established herself in lonely lodgings at 
Cheltenham. Then Mary Masters, who had 
lived for more than a dozen years at Bragton, 
went back to her father's liouse in Dillsborough. 

Any reader with an aptitude for family pedi- 
grees will now understand that Eeginald, master 
of Hoppet Hall, was first cousin to the father of 
the Foreign Office paragon, and that he is there- 
fore the paragon's first cousin once removed. The 
relationship is not very distant, but the two men, 
one of wiiom was a dozen years older than the 
other, had not seen each other for more than 
twenty years — at a time when one of them was 
a big boy, and the other a very little one; and 
during the greater part of that time a lawsuit 
had been carried on between them in a very rig- 
orous manner. It had done much to injure both, 
and had created such a feeling of hostihty that 
no intercourse of any kind now existed between 
them. 

It does not much concern us to know how far 
back should be dated the beginning of the con- 
nection between the Morton family and that of 
Mr. Masters, the attorney ; but it is certain that 
the first attorney of that name in Dillsborough 
became learned in the law through the patron- 
age of some former Morton. The father of 
the present Gregory Masters, and the grandfa- 
ther, had been thoroughly trusted and employed 
by old Reginald Morton, and the former of the 
two had made his will. Very much of the stew- 
ardship and management of the property had 
been in their hands, and they had throven as 
honest men, but as men with a tolerably sharp 
eye to their own interests. The late Mr. Mas- 
ters had died a few years before the squire, and 
the present attorney had seemed to succeed to 
these family blessings. But the whole order of 
things became changed. Within a few weeks 
of the squire's death Mr. Masters found that he 
was to be intrusted no further with the affairs of 
the property, but that, in lieu of such care, was 
thrown upon him the task of defending the will 
which he had made against the owner of the 
estate. His father and grandfather had contrived 
between them to establish a fairly good busi- 
ness, independently of Bragton, which business, 
of course, was now his. As f^r as instruction 
went, and knowlege, he was probably a better 
lawyer than either of them ; but he lacked their 
enterprise and special genius, and the thing had 
dwindled with him. It seemed to him, perhaps 
not unnaturally, that he had been robbed of an 
inheritance. He had no title deeds, as had the 
owners of the property ; but his ancestors before 
him, from generation to generation, had lived by 
managing the Bragton property. They had 
drawn the leases, and made the wills, and col- 
lected the rents, and had taught themselves to 
believe that a Morton could not live on his land 
without a Masters. Now there was a Morton 
who did not live on his land, but spent his rents 
elsewhere without the aid of any Masters, and it 
seemed to the old lawyer that all tlie good things 
of the world had passed awaj'. He had married 
twice, his first wife having, before her marriage, 
been well known at Bragton Park. When she 
had died, and Mr. Masters had brought a second 
wife home, Lady Ushant took the onlv child of 



the mother, whom she had tnown as a girl, into 
her own keeping, till she also had been compel- 
led to leave JBragton. Then Mary Masters had 
returned to her fatlier and step-mother. 

The Bragton Park residence is a large, old- 
fashioned, comfortable house, but by no means a 
magnificent mansion. The greater part of it was 
built one hundred and fifty years ago, and the 
rooms are small and low. In the palmy days of 
his reign, which is now more than half a century 
since, the old squire made alterations, and built 
new stables and kennels, and put up a conserva- 
tory ; but what he did then has already become 
almost old-fashioned now. What he added he 
added in stone, but the old house was brick. 
He was much abused at the time for his want of 
taste, and heard a good deal about putting new 
cloth as patches on old rents ; but, as the shrubs 
and ivy have grown up, a certain picturesqueness 
has come upon the place, which is greatly due to 
the dilFerence of material. The place is some- 
what sombre, as there is no garden closei to the 
house. There is a lawn at the back, with gravel- 
walks round it ; but it is only a small lawn ; and 
then, divided from the lawn by a ha-ha fence, is 
the park. The place, too, has that sad look 
whicir always comes to a house from the want 
of a tenant. Poor Lady Ushant, when she was 
there, could do little or nothing. A gardener 
was kept, but there should have been three or 
four gardeners. The man grew cabbages and 
onions, which he sold, but cared nothing for the 
walks or borders. Whatever it may have been 
in the old time, Bragton Park was certainly not 
a cheerful place when Lady Ushant lived there. 
In the squire's time the park itself had always 
been occupied by deer. Even when distress 
came he would not allow the deer to be sold. 
But after his death they went very soon, and 
from that day to the time of which I am writing, 
the park has been leased to some butchers or 
graziers from Dillsborough. 

The ground hereabouts is nearly level, but it 
falls away a little and becomes broken and pretty 
where the river Dill runs through the park, about 
half a mile from the house. There is a walk call- 
ed the Pleasance, passing down through siirubs 
to the river, and then crossing the stream by a 
foot-bridge, and leading across the fields toward 
Dillsborough. This bridge is, perhaps, the pret- 
tiest spot in Bragton, or, for that matter, any- 
where in the county round ; but even here there 
is not much of beauty to be praised. It is here, 
on the side of the river away from the house, 
that the home meet of the hounds used to be 
held ; and still the meet at Bragton Bridge is 
popular in this county. 



CHAPTER IIL 



THE MASTERS FAMILY. 



At six o'clock one November morning, Mr. 
Masters, the attorney, was sitting at home with 
his family in the large parlor of his house, his 
office being on the other side of the passage 
which cut the house in two, and was formally 
called the hall. Upstairs, over the parlor, was 
a drawing-room ; but this chamber, which was 
supposed to be elegantly furnished, was very 
rarely used. Mr. and Mrs. Masters did not see 



IC 12 



THE AMEEICAN SENATOR. 



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much company, and for family purposes the ele- 
gance of the drawing-room made it unfit. It 
added, however, not a little to the glory of Mrs. 
Masters's life. The house itself was a low brick 
building in the High Street, at the corner where 
the High Street runs into the market-place, and 
therefore nearly opposite to The Bush. It had 
none of the elaborate grandeur of the inn, nor of 
the simple stateliness of Hoppet Hall ; but, never- 
theless, it maintained the character of the town, 
and was old, substantial, respectable, and dark. 

"I think it a very spirited thing of him to do, 
then," said Mrs. Masters. 

" I don't know, my dear. Perhaps it is only 
sirevenge." 

"i "What have you to do with that ? What can 
'it matter to a lawyer whether it's revenge or any 
thing else ? He's got the means, I suppose ?" 

"I don't know, my dear." 

' ' What does Nickem say ?" 

"^I suppose he has the means," said Mr. Mas- 
ters, who was aware that if he told his wife a fib 
on the matter, she would learn the truth from 
his senior clerk, Mr. Samuel Nickem. Among 
the professional gifts which Mr. Masters possess- 
ed had not been that great gift of being able to 
keep his office and his family distinct from each 
other. His wife always knew what was going 
on, and was very free with her advice ; general- 
ly tendering it on that side on which money was 
to be made, and doing so with much feminine 
darkness as to right and wrong. His clerk, 
Nickem, who was afilicted with no such dark- 
ness, but who ridiculed the idea of scruple in. an 
attorney, often took part against him. It Avas 
the wish of his heart to get rid of Nickem; but 
Nickem would have carried business with him, 
anti gone over to some enemy, or perhaps have 
set up in some irregular manner on his own bot- 
tom ; and his wife would have given him no 
l)eace had he done so, for she regarded Nickem 
as the main-stay of the house. 

" What is Lord RufFord to you ?" asked Mrs. 
Masters. 

"He has always been very friendly." 

"I don't see it at aH. You have never had 
any of his money. I don't know that you are a 
pound richer by him." 

"I have always gone with the gentry of the 
county." 

"Fiddlesticks! Gentry! Gentry are very 
well as long as you can make a living out of them. 
You could afford to stick up for gentry till you 
lost the Bragton property." This was a subject 
that was always sore between Mr. Masters and 
his wife. The former Mrs. Masters had been a 
lady, the daughter of a neighboring clergyman, 
and had been much considered by the family at 
Bragton. The present Mrs. Masters was the 
daughter of an iron-monger at Norrington, who 
had brought a thousand pounds with her, wliicli 
had been very useful. No doubt Mr. Masters's 
practice had been considerably affected by the 
lowliness of his second marriage. People who 
used to know the first Mrs. Masters, such as Mrs. 
Mainwaring, and the doctor's wife, and old Mrs. 
Cooper, the wife of the vicar of Mallingham, 
would not call on the second Mrs. Masters. As 
Mrs. Masters was too high-spirited to run after 
people who did not want her, she took to hating 
gentry instead. 

"We have always been on the other side," 



said the old attorney — "I and my father and 
grandfather before me." 

" They lived on it, and you can't. If you are 
going to say that you won't have any client that 
isn't a gentleman, you might as well put up your 
shutters at once." 

' ' I haven't said so. Isn't Eunciman my cli- 
ent!" 

" He always goes with the gentry. He a'most 
thinks he's one of them himself." 

"And old Nobbs, the green-grocer. But it's 
all nonsense. Any man is my client, or any 
woman, who can come and pay me for business 
that is fit for me to do." 

" Why isn't this fit to be done ? If the man's 
been damaged, why shouldn't he be paid ?" 

" He's had money offered him." 

"If he thinks it ain't enough, who's to say 
that it is, unless a jury ?" said Mrs. Masters, be- 
coming quite eloquent, "And how 's a poor 
man to get a jury to say that unless he comes to 
a lawyer ? Of course, if you won't have it, he'll 
go to Bearside. Bearside won't turn him away." 
Bearside was another attorney, an interloper of 
about ten years' standing, whose name was odious 
to Mr. Masters. 

' ' You don't know any thing about it, my dear," 
said he, aroused at last to anger. 

"\ know you're letting any body who likes 
take the bread out of the cliildren's mouths." 
The children, so called, were sitting round the 
table, and could not but take an interest in the 
matter. The eldest was that Mary Masters, the 
daughter of the former wife, whom Lady Ushant 
had befriended, a tall girl, with dark-brown hair, 
so dark as almost to be black, and large, soft, 
thoughtful gray eyes. We shall have much to 
say of Mary Masters, and can hardly stop to give 
an adequate description of her here. The othere 
were Dolly and Kate, two girls aged sixteen and 
fifteen. The two younger " children " were eat- 
ing bread-and-butter and jam in a very healthy 
manner, hut still had tlieir ears wide open to 
the conversation that was being held. The two 
younger girls sympathized strongly with their 
mother. Mary, who had known much about the 
Mortons, and was old enough to understand the 
position which her grandfather had held in refer- 
ence to the family, of course leaned in her heart 
to her father's side. But she was wiser than her 
father, and knew that in such discussions her 
mother often showed a worldly wisdom which, 
in their present circumstances, they could hardly 
afford to disregard, unpalatable though it might 
be. 

Mr. Masters disliked these discussions alto- 
gether, but he disliked them most of all in pres- 
ence of his children. He looked round upon 
them in a deprecatory manner, making a slight 
motion with his hand, and bringing his head 
down on one side, and then he gave a long sigh. 
If it was his intention to convey some subtle 
warning to his Avife, some caution that she alone 
should understand, he was deceived. The "chil- 
dren" all knew what he meant quite as well as 
did their mother. 
■ " Shall we go out, mamma?" asked Dolly. 

"Pinish your teas, my dears," said Mr. Mas- 
ters, who wished to stop the discussion, rather 
than to carry it on before a more select au- 
dience. 

"You've got to make up your mind to-night," 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



13 



said Mrs. Masters, "and you'll be going over to 
The Bush at eight." 

"No, I needn't. He is to come on Monday. 
I told Nickem I wouldn't see him to-night ; nor, 
of course, to-morrow." 

"Then he'll go to Bearside." . 

" He may go to Bearside and be !" Oh, 

Lord ! I do wish you'd let me drop the business 
for a few minutes when I am in here ; you don't 
know any thing about it. How should you ?" 

"I know that if I didn't speak you'd let every 
thing slip thi'ough your fingers. There's Mr. 
Twentyman. Kate, open the door." 

Kate, who was fond of Mr. Twentyman, rush- 
ed up and opened the front door at once. In 
saying so much of Kate, I do not mean it to be 
understood that any precocious ideas of love were 
troubling that young lady's bosom. Kate Mas- 
ters was a jolly, bouncing school-girl of fifteen, 
who was not too proud to eat taffy, and thought 
herself still a child. But she was very fond of 
Lawrence Twentyman, who had a pony that she 
could ride, and who was always good-natured to 
her. All the family liked Mr. Twentyman, un- 
less it might be Mary, who w^as the one that he 
specially liked himself. And Mary was not alto- 
gether averse to him, knowing him to be good- 
natured, manly, and straightforward. But Mr. 
Twentyman had proposed to her, and she had — 
certainly not accepted him. This, however, had 
broken none of the family friendship. Every one 
in the house, unless it might be Mary herself, 
hoped that Mr. Twentyman might prevail at last. 
The man was worth six or seven hundred a year, 
and had a good house, and owed no one a shil- 
ling. He was handsome, and about the best- 
tempered fellow known. Of course they all de- 
sired that he should prevail with Mary. "I 
wish that I were old enough, Larry, that's all," 
Kate had said to him once, laughing. "I 
wouldn't have you if you were ever so old," 
Larry had replied ; "you'd want to be out hunt- 
ing every day." That will show the sort of 
terms that Larry was on with his friend Kate. 
He called at the house every Saturday, with the 
declared object of going over to the club that was 
held that evening in the parlor at The Bush, 
whither Mr. Masters also always went. It was 
understood at home that Mr. Masters should at- 
tend this club every Saturday from eight till 
eleven, but that he was not at any other time to 
give way to the fascinations of The Bush. On 
this occasion, and we may say on almost every 
Saturday night, Mr. Twentyman arrived a full 
hour before the appointed time. The reason of 
his doing so was, of course, well understood, and 
was quite approved by Mrs. Masters. She was 
not, at any rate as yet, a cruel step-mother ; but 
still, if the girl could be transferred to so eligible 
a home as that which Mr. Twentyman could give 
her, it would be well for all parties. 

When he took his seat he did not address him- 
self specially to the lady of his k)ve. I don't 
know how a gentleman is to do so in the pres- 
ence of her father and mother and sisters. Sat- 
urday after Satui-day he probably thought that 
some occasion would arise ; but, if his words 
could have been counted, it would probably have 
been found that he addressed fewer to her than 
to any one in the room. 

"Lany," said his special friend Kate, " am I 
to have the pony at the Bridge meet ?" 



"How very free you are, miss!" said her 
mother. 

"I don't know about that," said Larry. 
' ' When is there to be a meet at the Bridge ? I 
haven't heard." 

"But I have. Tony Tuppett told me that 
they would be there this day fortniglit." Tony 
Tuppett was the huntsman of the U. R. U. 

" That's more than Tony can know. He may 
have guessed it." 

"Shall I have the pony if he has guessed 
right ?" 

Then the pony was promised ; and Kate, trust- 
ing in Tony Tuppett's sagacity, was happy. 

"Have you heard of all this about Dillsbor- 
ough Wood ?" asked Mrs. Masters. The attor- 
ney shrunk at the question, and shook himself 
uneasily in his chair. , . 

"Yes ; I've heard about it," said Larry. 

" And what do you think about it ? I don't 
see why Lord Rufford is to ride over every body 
because he's a lord. " Mr. Twentyman scratched 
his head. Though a keen sportsman himself, he 
did not specially like Lord Rufford — a fact which 
had been very well known to Mrs. Masters. 
But, nevertheless, tiiis threatened action against 
the nobleman was distasteful to him. It was 
not a hunting affair, or Mr. Twentyman could 
not have doubted for a moment. It was a shoot- 
ing difficulty, and as Mx*. Twentyman had never 
been asked to fire a gun on the Rufford preserves, 
it was no great sorrow to him that there should 
be such a difficulty. But the thing threatened 
was an attack upon the country gentry and their 
amusements, and Mr. Twentyman was a country 
gentleman who followed sport. Upon the whole, 
his sympathies were with Lord Rufford. 

" The man is an utter blackguard, you know," 
said Larry. "Last year he threatened to shoot 
the foxes in Dillsborough Wood." 

"No !" said Kate, quite horrified. 

"I'm afraid he's a bad sort of fellow all round," 
said the attorney. 

"I don't see why he shouldn't claim what he 
thinks due to him," said Mrs. Masters. 

"I'm told that his lordship offered him seven- 
and-six an acre for the whole of the two fields," 
said the gentleman-farmer. 

"Goarly declares," said Mrs. Masters, "that 
the pheasants didn't leave him four bushels of 
wheat to the acre. " 

Goarly was the man who had proposed him- 
self as a client to Mr. Masters, and who was de- 
sirous of claiming damages to the amount of forty 
shillings an acre for injury done to the crops on 
two fields belonging to himself which lay adja- 
cent to Dillsborough Wood, a covert belonging 
to Lord Rufford, about four miles from the town, 
in which both pheasants and foxes were pre- 
served with great cai"e. 

"Has Goarly been to you?" asked Twenty- 
man. 

Mr. Masters nodded his head. "That's just 
it," said Mrs. Masters. "I don't see why a man 
isn't to go to law if he pleases, that is, if he can 
afford to pay for it. I have nothing to say against 
gentlemen's sport ; but I do say that they should 
run the same chance as others. And I say it's 
a shame if they're to band themselves together 
and make the county too hot to hold any one as 
doesn't like to have his things ridden over, and 
his crops devoured, and his fences knocked into 



14 



THE AMEEICAN SENATOR.- 



Jericho. I tbink there's a deal of selfishness in 
sport and a deal of tyranny." 

"Oh, Mrs. Masters!" exclaimed Larry. 

" Well, I do. And if a poor man, or a man 
whether he's poor or no," added Mrs. Masters, 
correcting herself, as she thought of the money 
which this man ought to have in order that he 
might pay for his lawsuit, " thinks hisself injured, 
it's nonsense to tell me that nobody should take 
up his case. It's just as though the butcher 
wouldn't sell a man a leg of mutton because Lord 
EufFord had a spite against him. Who's Lord 
Ruiford ?" 

' ' Every body knows that I care very little for 
his lordship," said Mr. Twentyman. 

" Nor I ; and I don't see why Gregory should. 
If Goarly isn't entitled to what he wants, he won't 
get it, that's all. But let it be tried fairly." 

Hereupon Mr. Masters took up his hat and 
left the room, and Twentyman followed him, not 
liaving yet expressed any positive opinion on the 
delicate matter submitted to his judgment. Of 
course Goarly was a brute. Had he not threat- 
ened to shoot foxes? But, then, an attorney 
must live by lawsuits ; and it seemed to Mr. 
Twentyman that an attorney should not stop to 
inquire whether a new client is a brute or not. 



CHAPTER IV. 

THE DILLSBOKOUGH CLUB. 

Thk club, SO called at Dillsborough, was held 
every Saturday evening in a back parlor at The 
Bush, and was attended generally by seven or 
eight members. It was a very easy club. There 
was no balloting, and no other expense attend- 
ing it other than that of paying for the liquor 
which each man chose to drink. Sometimes, 
about ten o'clock, there was a little supper, the 
cost of which was defrayed by subsci'iption among 
those who partook of it. It was one rule of the 
club — or a habit, rather, which had grown to be 
a rule — that Mr. Runciman might introduce into 
it any one he pleased. I do not know that a 
similar position was denied to any one else ; but 
as Mr. Runciman had a direct pecuniary advan- 
tage in promoting the club, the new-comers were 
genei'ally ushered in by him. When the attor- 
ney and Twentyman entered the room, Mr. 
Runciman was seated, as usual, in an arm-chair 
at the corner of the fire nearest to the door, with 
the bell at his right hand. He was a hale, good- 
looking man about fifty, with black hair, now 
turning gray at the edges, and a clean -shorn 
chin. He had a pronounced strong foce of his 
own, one capable of evincing anger and determi- 
nation when necessary, but equally apt for smiles 
or, on occasion, for genuine laughter. He was 
a masterful but a pleasant man, A-ery civil to 
customers and to his friends generally while they 
took him the right way; but one who could be 
a Tartar if he were offended, holding an opinion 
that his position as landlord of an inn was one 
requiring masterdom. And his wife was like him 
in every thing — except in this, that she always 
submitted to him. He was a temperate man in 
the main ; but on Saturday nights he would be- 
come jovial, and sometimes a little quarrelsome. 
When this occurred the club would generally 



break itself up and go home to bed, not in the 
least offended. Indeed, Mr. Runciman was the 
tyrant of the club, though it was held at his 
house expressly with the view of putting mon- 
ey into his pocket. Opposite to his seat was an- 
other arm-chair — not so big as Mr. Runciman's, 
but still a soft and easy chair — which was al- 
ways left for the attorney; for Mr. Masters 
was a man much respected through all Dills- 
borough, partly on his own account, but more, 
perhaps, for the sake of his father and grand- 
father. He was a round-faced, clean-shorn man,' 
with straggling, gray hair, who always wore 
black clothes and a white cravat. There was 
something in his" appearance which recommend- 
ed him among his neighbors, who were disposed 
to say he "looked the gentleman;" but a stran- 
ger might have thought his cheeks to be flabby 
and his mouth to be weak. 

Making a circle, or the beginning of a circle, 
round the fire, were Nupper, the doctor — a sport- 
ing old-bachelor doctor, who had the reputation 
of riding after the hounds in order that he might 
be ready for broken bones and minor accidents; 
next to him, in another arm- chair, facing the 
fire, was Ned Botsey, the younger of the two 
brewers from Norrington, who was in the habit 
during the hunting season of stopping from Sat- 
urday to Monday at The Bush, partly because 
the Rufford hounds hunted on Saturday and 
Monday, and on those days seldom met in the 
Norrington direction, and partly because he liked 
the sporting conversation of the Dillsborough 
Club. He was a little man, veiy neat in his at- 
tii'e, who liked to be above his company, and 
fancied that he was so in Mr. Runciman's pai*- 
lor. Between him and the attorney's chair was 
Harry Stubbings, from Stanton Corner, the man 
who let out hunters, and whom Twentyman had 
threatened to thrash. His introduction to the 
club had taken place lately, not without some op- 
position ; but Runciman had set his foot upon 
that, saying that it was " all d — nonsense." He 
had prevailed, and Twentyman had consented to 
meet the man ; but there was no great friend- 
ship between them. Seated back on the sofa 
was Mr. Ribbs, the butcher, who M'as allowed 
into the society as being a specially modest man. 
His modesty, perhaps, did not hinder him in an 
affair of sheep or bullocks, nor yet in the collec- 
tion of his debts ; but at the club he understood 
his position, and rarely opened his mouth to 
speak. When Twentyman followed the attorney 
into the room there was a vacant chair between 
Mr. Botsey and Harry Stubbings ; but he would 
not get into it, preferring to seat himself on the 
table at Botsey's right hand. 

"So Goarly was with you, Mr. Masters," Mr. 
Runciman began, as soon as the attorney was 
seated. It was clear that they had all been talk- 
ing about Goai-ly and his lawsuit, and that Goar^ 
ly and the lawsuit would be talked about very 
generally in Dillsborough. 

" He was over at my place this evening," said 
the attorne3\ 

"You are not going to take his case up for 
him, Mr. Masters ?" said young Botsey. "We 
expect something better from you than that." 

Now, Ned Botsey was rather an impudent 
young man, and Mr. Masters, though he was 
mild enough at home, did not like impudence 
from the world at large. " I suppose, Mr. Bot- 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



15 



sey," said be, " that if Goarly were to go to you 
for a barrel of beer, you'd sell it to him." 

"I don't know whether I should or not. I 
dare say my people would. But that's a differ- 
ent thing." 

"I don't see any difference at all. You're 
not very particular as to your customers, and I 
don't ask you any questions about them. Ring 
the bell, Runciman, please." The bell was rung, 
and the two new-comers ordered their liquor. 

It was quite right that Ned Botsey should 
be put down. Every one in the room felt that. 
But there was something in the attorney's tone 
which made the assembled company feel that lie 
had undertaken Goarly's case ; whereas, in the 
opinion of the company, Goarly was a scoundrel 
^vith whom Mr. Masters should have had noth- 
ing to do. The attorney had never been a sport- 
ing-man himself, but he had always been, as it 
were, on that side. 

" Goarly is a great fool for his pains," said 
the doctor. "He has had a very fair offer made 
him, and, first or last, it'll cost him forty pounds." 

"He has got it into his head," said the land- 
lord, " that he can . sue Lord Rufford for his 
fences. Lord Rufford is not answerable for his 
fences." 

"It's the loss of crop he's going for," said 
Twenty man. 

" How can there be pheasants to that amount 
in Dillsborough wood," continued the landlord, 
" when eveiy body Ijnows that foxes breed there 
every year ? There' isn't a surer find for a fox 
in the whole county. Every body knows that 
Lord Rufford never lets his game stand in the 
way of foxes." 

Lord Rufford was Mr. Runciman's great friend 
and patron and best customer, and not a word 
against Lord Rufford was allowed in that room, 
though elsewhere in Dillsborough ill-natured 
things were sometimes said of his lordship. 
Then there came on that well-worn dispute among 
sportsmen, whether foxes and pheasants ai'e or 
are not pleasant companions to each other. 
Every one was agreed that, if not, then the 
pheasants should suffer, and that any country 
gentleman who allowed his gamekeeper to in- 
trench on the privileges of foxes in order that 
pheasants might be more abundant, was a 
"brute" and a "beast," and altogether un- 
worthy to live in England. Larry Twentyman 
and Ned Botsey expressed an opinion that 
pheasants were predominant in Dillsborough 
wood, while Mr. Runciman, the doctor, and Har- 
ry Stubbings declared loudly that every thing 
that foxes could desire was done for them in 
that Elysium of sport. 

"We drew the wood blank last time we were 
there," said Larry. "Don't you remember, 
Mr. Runciman — about the end of last March ?" 

"Of course I remember," said the landlord. 
"Just the end of the season, when two vixens 
had litters in the wood! You don't suppose 
Bean was going to let that old butcher, Tony, 
find a fox in Dillsborough at that time." Bean 
was his lordship's head gamekeeper in that part 
of the country. "How many foxes had we 
found there during the season?" 

"Two or three," suggested Botsey. 

" Seven !" said the energetic landlord ; " sev- 
en, including cub-hunting, and killed four! If 
you kill four foxes out of an eighty-acre wood, 



and have two litters at the end of the season, I 
don't think you have much to complain of." 

" If they all did as well as Lord Rufford, you'd 
have more foxes than you'd know what to do 
with," said the doctor. 

Then this branch of the conversation was end- 
ed by a bet of a new hat between Botsey and 
the landlord as to the finding of a fox in Dills- 
borough wood when it should next be drawn ; 
as to which, when the speculation was completed, 
Harry Stubbings offered Mr. Runciman ten 
shillings down for his side of the bargain. 

But all this did not divert the general atten- 
tion from the important matter of Goarly's at- 
tack. "Let it be how it will," said Mr. Runci- 
man, "a fellow like that should be put down." 
He did not address himself specially to Mr. 
Masters, but that gentleman felt that he was be- 
ing talked at. 

" Certainly he ought, " said Dr. Nnpper. " If 
he didn't feel satisfied with what his lordship 
offered him, why couldn't he ask his lordship 
to refer the matter to a couple of farmers who 
understood it ?" 

"It's the spirit of the thing," said Mr. Ribbs, 
from his place ou the sofa. ' ■ It's a hodious 
spirit." 

"That's just it, Mr. Ribbs," said Harry Stub- 
bings. " It's all meant for opposition. Wheth- 
er it's shooting or whether it's hunting, it's all' 
one. Such a chap oughtn't to be allowed to 
have land. I'd take it away from him by Act 
of Parliament. It's such as him as is destroying 
the country." 

"There ain't many of them hereabouts, thank 
God !" said the landlord. 

"Now, Mr. Twentyman," said Stubbings, who 
was anxious to make friends with the gentleman- 
farmer, "you know what land can do, and what 
land lias done, as well as any man. What would 
you say was the real damage done to them two 
wheat-fields by his lordship's game last autumn ? 
You saw the crops as they were growing, and 
you know what came off the land." 

"I wouldn't like to say." 

"But if you were on your oath, Mr. Twenty- 
man ? Was there more than seven-and-sixpence 
an acre lost ?" 

"No, nor five shillings," said Runciman. 

"I think Goarly ought to take his lordship's 
offer, if you mean that," said Twentyman. 

Then there was a pause, during which more 
drink was brought in, and pipes were relighted. 
Every body wished that Mr. Masters might be 
got to say that he would not take the case, but 
there was a delicacy about asking him. "If I 
remember right, he was in Rufford jail once," 
said Runciman. 

"He was let out on bail, and then the matter 
was hushed up somehow," said the attorney. 

"It was something about a woman," con- 
tinued Runciman. "I know that on that oc- 
casion he came out an awful scoundrel." 

"Don't you remember," asked Botsey, " how 
he used to walk up and down the covert- side 
with a gun, two years ago, swearing he would 
shoot the fox if he broke over his land ?" 

"I heard him say it, Botsey," said Twenty-, 
man. 

" It wouldn't have been the first fox he's mur- 
dered, " said the doctor. 

" Not by many," said the landlord. 



16 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



"You remember that old woman near my 
place?" said Stubbings. "It was he that put 
her up to tell all them lies about her turkeys. I 
ran it home to him ! A blackguard like that ! 
Nobody ought to take him up." 

"I hope you won't, Mr. Masters," said the 
doTctor. The doctor was as old as the attorney, 
and had known him for many years. No one 
else could dare to ask the question. 

"I don't suppose I shall, Nupper," said the 
attorney from his chair. It was the first word 
he had spoken since he had put down young 
Botsey. "It wouldn't just suit me ; but a man 
has to judge of those things for himself." 

Then there was a general rejoicing, and Mr. 
Runciman stood broiled bones, and ham-and- 
eggs, and bottled stout for the entire club ; one 
unfortunate effect of which unwonted conviviali- 
ty was that Mr. Masters did not get home till 
near twelve o'clock. That was sure to cause 
discomfort ; and, then, he had pledged himself to 
decline Goarly's business ! 



CHAPTER V. 



REGINALD MOKTON. 



We will now go back to Hoppet Hall and its 
inhabitants. When the old squire died, he left 
by his will Hoppet Hall and certain other houses 
in Dillsborough, which were all that he could 
leave, to his grandson, Reginald Morton. Then 
there arose a question whether this property also 
was not entailed. The former Mr. Masters, and 
our friend of the present day, had been quite cer- 
tain of the squire's power to do what he liked 
with it ; but others had been equally certain on 
the other side, and there had been a lawsuit. 
During that time Reginald Morton had been 
forced to live on a very small allowance. His 
aunt, Lady Ushant, had done what little she 
could for him, but it had been felt to be impossi- 
ble that he should remain at Biagton, which was 
the property of the cousin who was at law with 
him. From the moment of his birth, the Hon- 
orable Mrs. Morton, who was also his aunt by 
marriage, had been his bitter enemy. He was 
the son of an innkeeper's daughter, and, accord- 
ing to her theory of life, should never even have 
been noticed by the real Mortons. And this 
honorable old lady was almost adverse to Lady 
Ushant, whose husband had simply been a knight, 
and who had left nothing behind him. Thus 
Reginald Morton had been almost absolutely 
friendless since his grandfather died, and had 
lived in Geiinany, nobody quite knew how. 
During the entire period of this lawsuit, Hoppet 
Hall had remained untenanted. 

When the property was finally declared to 
belong to Reginald Morton, the Hall, before 
it could be used, required considerable repair. 
But there M'as other property. The Bush Inn 
belonged to Mr. Morton, as did the house in 
Avhich Mr. Masters lived, and sundry other small- 
er tenements in the vicinity. There was an in- 
come from these of about five hundred pounds 
a year. Reginald, who was then nearly thirty 
years of age, came over to England, and staid 
for a month or two at Bragton with his aunt, to 
the infinite chagrin of the old dowager. "iThe 
management of the town property was intrusted 



to Mr. Masters, and Hoppet Hall was repaired. 
At this period Mr. Mainwaring had just come to 
Dillsborough, and, having a wife with some mon- 
ey and perhaps quite as much pretension, had 
found the rectory too small, and had taken the 
Hall on a lease for seven years. When this was 
arranged, Reginald Morton again went to Ger- 
many, and did not return till the lease had run 
out. By that time Mr. Mainwaring, having 
spent a little money, found that the rectory 
would be large enough for his small family. 
Then the Hall was again untenanted for a while, 
till, quite suddenly, Reginald Morton returned 
to Dillsborough, and took up his permanent res- 
idence in his own house. 

It soon became known that the new-comer 
would not add much to the gayety of the place. 
The only people whom he knew in Dillsborough 
were his own tenants, Mr. Runciman and Mr. 
Masters, and the attorney's eldest daughter. 
During those months which he had spent with 
Lady Ushant at Bragton, Mary had been living 
there, then a child of twelve years old, and, as a 
child, had become his fast friend. With his aunt 
he had continually corresponded, and partly at 
her instigation, and partly from feelings of his 
own, he had at once gone to the attorney's house. 
This was now two years since, and he had found 
in his old playmate a beautiful young woman, in 
his opinion very unlike the people with whom 
she lived. Eor the first twelve months he saw 
her occasionally — though not, indeed, very oft- 
en. Once or twice he had drunk tea at the 
attorney's house, on which occasions the draw- 
ing-room upstairs had been almost as grand as it 
was uncomfortable. Then the attentions of Lar- 
ry Twentyman began to make themselves visible, 
infinitely to Reginald Morton's disgust. Up to 
that time he had no idea of falling in love with 
the girl himself. Since he had begun to think 
on such subjects at all, he liad made up his mind 
that he would not many. He was almost the 
more proud of his birth by his father's side, be- 
cause he had been made to hear so much of his 
mother's low position. He had told himself a 
hundred times that under no circumstances could 
he marry any other than a lady of good birth. 
But his own fortune was small, and he knew 
himself well enough to be sure that he would not 
marry for money. He was now nearly forty 
years of age, and had never yet been tin-own into 
the society of any one that had attracted him. 
He was sure that he would not marry. And yet 
when he saw that Mr. Twentyman was made 
much of and flattered by the whole JMasters {am- 
ily, apparently because he was regarded as an 
eligible husband for Mary, Reginald Morton was 
not only disgusted, but personally offended. Be- 
ing a most unreasonable man, he conceived a bit- 
ter dislike to poor Larry, who, at any rate, was 
truly in love, and was not looking too high in 
desiring to marry the portionless daughter of the 
attorney. But Morton thought that the man 
ought to be kicked and horsewhipped, or, at any 
rate, banished into some speechless exile for his 
presumption. 

With Mr. Runciman he had dealings, and in 
some sort friendship. There were two meadows 
attached to Hoppet Hall, fields Mng close to the 
town, which were very suitable for the landlord's 
purposes. Mr. Mainwaring had held them in 
his own hands, taking them up from Mr. Rimci- 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



17 



man, who had occupied them while the house was ' 
untenanted, in a manner which induced Mr. j 
Bunciman to feel that it was useless to go to 
church to hear such sermons as those preached 
by the rector. But Morton had restored the 
fields, giving them rent free, on condition that he 
should be supplied With milk and butter. Mr. 
Runciman, no doubt, had the best of the bargain, 
as he generally had in all bargains ; but he was 
a man who liked to be generous when generous- 
ly treated. Consequently he almost overdid his 
neighbor with butter and cream, and occasional- 
ly sent in quarters of lamb and sweet-breads to 
make up the weight. I don't know that the of- 
ferings were particularly valued ; but friendship 
was engendered. Runciman, too, had his grounds 
for quarreling with those who had taken up the 
management of the Bragton property after the 
squire's death, and had his own antipathy to the 
Honorable Mrs. Morton and her grandson, the 
Secretary of Legation. When the lawsuit was 
going on, he had been altogether on Reginald 
Morton's side. It was an affair of sides, and 
quite natural that Runciman and the attorney 
should be friendly with the new-comer at Hop- 
pet Hall, though there were very few points of 
personal sympathy between them. 

Reginald Morton was no sportsman, nor was 
he at all likely to become a member of the Dills- 
borough Club. It was currently reported of him 
in the town that he had never sat on a horse or 
fired off a gun. As he had been brought up as 
a boy by the old squire, tliis was probably an ex- 
aggeration ; but it is certain that at this period 
of his life he had given up any aptitudes in tliat 
direction for which his early training might have 
suited him. He had brought back with him to 
Hoppet Hall many cases of books, which the ig- 
norance of Dillsborough had magnified into an 
enormous library, and was certainly a sedentary, 
reading man. There was already a report in the 
town that he was engaged on some stupendous 
literary work, and the men and women general- 
ly looked upon him as a disagreeable marvel of 
learning. Dillsborough of itself was not book- 
ish, and would have regarded any one known to 
have written an article in a magazine almost as 
a phenomenon. 

He seldom went to church, much to the sor- 
row of Mr. Surtees, who ventured to call at the 
house and remonstrate with him. He never 
called again. And though it was the habit of 
Mr. Surtees's life to speak as little ill as possible 
©f any one, he was not able to say any good of 
Mr. Morton. Mr. Mainwaring, who would nev- 
er have troubled himself though his parishioner 
had not entered a place of worship once in a 
twelvemonth, did say many severe things against 
his former landlord. He hated people who were 
unsocial and averse to dining out, and who de- 
parted from the ways of living common among 
English country gentlemen, Mr. Mainwaring 
■was, upon the whole, prepared to take the other 
side. 

Reginald Morton, though he was now nearly 
forty, was a young-looking, handsome man, with 
fair hair, cut short, and a light beard, which was 
always clipped. Though his mother had been 
an innkeeper's daughter in Montreal, he had the 
Morton blue eyes, and the handsome, well-cut 
Morton nose. He was nearly six feet high, and 
strongly made, and was known to be a much 
2 



finer man than the Secretary of Legation, who 
was rather small, and supposed to be not very 
robust. 

Our lonely man was a great walker, and had 
investigated every lane and pathway, and almost 
every hedge, within ten miles of Dillsborough 
before he had resided there two years ; but his 
favorite rambles were all in the neighborhood of 
Bragton. As there was no one living in the 
house — no one but the old housekeeper, who had 
lived there always — he was able to wander about 
the place as he pleased. On the Tuesday after- 
noon, after the meeting of the Dillsborough Club 
which has been recorded, he was seated, about 
three o'clock, on the rail of the foot-bridge over 
the Dill, with a long German pipe hanging from 
his mouth. He was noted throughout the whole 
country for this pipe, or for others like it, such a 
one being usually in his mouth as he wandered 
about. The amount of tobacco which he had 
smoked since his return to these parts, exactly 
in that spot, was considerable, for there he might 
have been found at some period of the afternoon 
at least three times a week. He would sit on 
this rail for half an hour, looking down at the 
sluggish waters of the little river, rolling the 
smoke out of his mouth at long intervals, and 
thinking, perhaps, of the great book which he 
was supposed to be writing. As he sat there 
now, he suddenly heard voices and laughtei", and 
presently three girls came round the corner of 
the hedge, which at this spot hid the Dillsbor- 
ough path, and he saw the attorney's three daugh- 
ters. 

"It's Mr. Morton," said Dolly, in a whisper. 

"He's always walking about Bragton," said 
Kate, in another whisper. ' ' Tony Tuppett says 
that he's the Bragton ghost." 

"Kate," said Mary, also in a low voice, "you 
shouldn't talk so much about what you hear from 
Tony Tuppett." 

"Bosh !" said Kate, who knew that she could 
not be scolded in the presence of Mr. Morton. 

He came forward and shook hands with tiiem 
all, and took off his hat to Mary. "You've 
walked a long way. Miss Masters, " he said. 

"We don't think it far. I like sometimes to 
come and look at the old place." 

" And so do I. I wonder whether you remem- 
ber how often I've sat you on this rail and threat- 
ened to throw you into the river ?" 

"I remember very well that you did threaten 
me once, and that I almost beUeved that you 
would throw me in." 

"What had she done that was naughty, Mr. 
Morton ?" asked Kate. 

" I don't think she ever did any thing naughty 
in those days. I don't know whether she has 
changed for the worse since." 

"Mary is never naughty now," said Dolly. 
"Kate and I are naughty, and it's very much 
better fun than being good." 

"The world has found out that long ago, 
Miss Dolly : only the world is not quite so can- 
did in owning it as you are. Will you come 
and walk round the house, Miss Masters? I 
never go in, but I have no scruples about the 
paths and park." 

At the end of the bridge leading into the 
shrubbery there was a stile, high, indeed, but 
made commodiously with steps, almost like a 
double staircase, so that ladies could pass it with- 



18 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



out trouble. Mary had given her assent to the 
proposed walk, and was in the act of putting out 
her hand to be helped over the stile, when Mr. 
Twentyman appeared at the other side of it. 

"If here isn't Larry !" said Kate. 
Morton's face turned as black as thundei*, but 
he immediately went back across the bridge, 
leading Mary with him. The other girls, who 
had followed him on to the bridge, had of course 
to go back also. Mary was made very unhappy 
by the meeting. Mr, Morton would, of course, 
think that it had been planned, whereas by Mary 
herself it had been altogether unexpected. Kate, 
when the bridge was free, rushed over it and 
whispered something to Larry. The meeting 
had indeed been planned between her and Dol- 
ly and the lover, and this special walk had been 
taken at the request of the two younger girls. 

Morton stood stock-still, as though he expected 
that Twentyman would pass by. Larry hurried 
over the bridge, feeling sure that the meeting 
with Morton had been accidental, and thinking 
that he would pass on toward the house. 

Larry was not at all ashamed of his purpose, 
nor was he inclined lo give way and pass on. 
He came up boldly to his love, and shook hands 
with her with a pleasant smile. "If you are 
walking back to Dillsborough," he said, "maybe 
you'll let me go a little way with you ?" 

"I was going round the house with Mr. Mor- 
ton," she said, timidly. 

"Perhaps I can join you?" said he, bobbing 
his head at the other man. 

"If you intended to walk back with Mr, 
Twentyman — " began Morton. 

"But I didn't," said the poor girl, who in 
truth understood more of it all than did either 
of the two men. "I didn't expect him, and I 
didn't expect you. It's a pity I can't go both 
ways, isn't it?" she added, attempting to appear 
cheerful. 

"Come back, Mary," said Kate ; " we've had 
walking enough, and shall be awfully tired before 
we get home." 

Mary liad thought that she would like extreme- 
ly to go round the house with her old friend, and 
have a hundred incidents of her early life recall- 
ed to her memory. The meeting with Reginald 
Morton had been altogether pleasant to her. 
She had often felt how much she would have 
liked it had the chance of her life enabled her to 
see more frequently one whom as a girl she had 
so intimately known. But at the moment she 
lacked the courage to walk boldly across the 
bridge, and thus to rid herself of Lawrence 
Twentyman. She had already perceived that 
Morton's manner had i-endered it impossible that 
her lover should follow them. "I am afraid I 
must go home," she said. It was the very thing 
she did not want to do — this going home with 
Lawrence Twentyman ; and yet she herself said 
that she must do it — driven to say so by a nerv- 
ous dread of showing herself to be fond of the 
other man's company. 

"Good-afternoon to you," said Morton, very 
gloomily, waving his hat and stalking across the 
bridge. 



CHAPTER VI. 

NOT IN LOVE. 

Reginald Morton, as he walked across the 
bridge toward the house, was thoroughly disgust- 
ed with all the world. He was very angry with 
himself, feeling that he had altogether made a 
fool of himself by his manner. He had shown 
himself to be offended, not only by Mr. Twenty, 
man, but by Miss Masters also ; and he was well 
aware, as he thought of it all, that neither of 
them had given him any cause of offense. If 
she chose to make an appointment for a walk 
with Mr. Lawrence Twentyman and to keep it, 
what was that to him ? His anger was altogeth- 
er irrational, and he knew that it was so. What 
right had he to have an opinion about it if Mary 
Masters should choose to like the society of Mr. 
Twentyman ? It was an affair between him and 
her father and mother, in which he could have 
no interest ; and yet he had not only taken of- 
fense, but was well aware that he had shown his 
feeling. 

Nevertheless, as to the girl herself, he could 
not argue himself out of his anger. It was griev- 
ous to him that he should have gone out of his 
way to ask her to walk with him just at the mo- 
ment when she was expecting this vulgar lover ; 
for that she had expected him he felt no doubt. 
Yet he had heard her disclaim any intention of 
walking with the man ! But girls are sly, espe- 
cially when their lovers are concerned. It made 
him sore at heart to feel that this girl should be 
sly, and doubly sore to think that she should 
have been able to love such a one as Lawrence 
Twentyman. 

As he roamed about among the grounds, this 
idea troubled him much. He assured himself 
that he was not in love with her himself, and that 
he had no idea of falling in love with her ; but it 
sickened him to think that a girl who had been 
brought up by his aunt, who had been loved at 
Bragton, whom he had liked, who looked so like 
a lady, should put herself on a par with such a 
wretch as that. In all this he was most unjust 
to both of them. He was specially unjust to 
poor Larry, who was by no means a wretch. 
His costume was not that to which Morton had 
been accustomed in Germany, nor would it have 
passed without notice in Bond Street. But it 
was rational and clean. When he came to the 
bridge to meet his sweetheart, he had on a 
dark-green shooting-coat, a billicock hat, brown 
breeches, and gaiters nearly up to his knees. I 
don't know that a young man in the countiy 
could Avear more suitable attire. And he was a 
well-made man — ^just such a one as, in this dress, 
would take the eye of a countiy girl. There was 
a little bit of dash about him — just a touch of 
swagger — which better breeding might have pre- 
vented. But it was not enough to make him 
odious to an unprejudiced observei*. I could fan- 
cy that an old lady from London, with an eye in 
her head for manly symmetry, would have liked 
to look at Larry, and would have thought that a 
girl in Mary's position would be happy in having 
such a lover, providing that his character were 
good and his means adequate. But Reginald 
Morton was not an old woman ; and to his eyes 
the smart young farmer, with his billicock hat, 
not quite straight on his head, was an odious 
1 thing to behold. He exaggerated the swagger, 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



19 



and took no notice whatever of the well-made 
limbs. And, then, this man had proposed to ac- 
company him; had wanted tojoin his party; had 
thought it possible that a flirtation might be car- 
ried on in his presence ! He sincerely hated the 
man ; but what was he to think of such a girl as 
Mary Masters when she could bring herself to 
like the attentions of such a lover ? 

He was very cross with himself, because he 
knew how unreasonable was his anger. Of one 
thing only could he assure himself — that he would 
never again willingly put himself in Mary's com- 
pany. What was Dillsborough, and the ways 
of its inhabitants, to him ? Why should he so 
far leave the old fashions of his life as to fret 
himself about an attorney's daughter in a little 
English town ? And yet he did fiet himself, 
walking rapidly, and smoking his pipe a great 
deal quicker than was his custom. 

When he was about to return home he passed 
the front of the house, and there, standing at the 
open door, he saw Mrs. Hopkins, the housekeep- 
er, who had in truth been waiting for him. He 
said a good - natured word to her, intending to 
make his way on without stopping, but she called 
him back. "Have you heard the news, Mr. 
Reginald ?" she said. 

" I haven't heard any news this twelvemonth," 
he replied. 

"Laws! that is so like you, Mr. Reginald. 
The young squire is to be here next week." 

"Who is the young squire? I didn't know 
there was any squire now. " 

"Mr. Reginald!" 

"A squire, as I take it, Mrs. Hopkins, is a 
country gentleman who lives on his own proper- 
ty. Since my grandfather's time, no such gen- 
tleman has lived at Bragton," 

"Tlmt's true, too, Mr. Reginald. Anyway, 
Mr. Morton is coming down next week." 

"I thought he was in America." 

"He has come home, for a turn like, and is 
staying up in town with the old lady." The old 
lady always meant the Honorable Mrs. Morton, 

"And is the old lady coming down with him ?" 

"I fancy she is, Mr. Reginald. He didn't 
say as much, but only that there would be three 
or four — a couple of ladies he said, and perhaps 
more. So I am getting the east bedroom, with 
the dressing-room, and the blue room, for her 
ladyship." (People about Bragton had been ac- 
customed to call Mrs. Morton "her ladyship.") 
"That's where she always used to be. Would 
you come in and see, Mr. Reginald ?" 

"Certainly not, Mrs. Hopkins. If you were 
asking me into a house of your own, I would go 
in and see all the rooms, and chat with you for 
an hour ; but I don't suppose I shall ever go into 
this house again, unless things change very much 
indeed." 

" Then I'm sure I hope they will change, Mr, 
Reginald." Mrs. Hopkins had known Reginald 
Morton as a boy growing up into manhood, had 
almost been present at his birth, and had renew- 
ed her friendship while he was staying with Lady 
Ushant ; but of the present squire, as she called 
him, she had seen almost nothing, and what she 
had once remembered of him had now been ob- 
literated by an absence of twenty years. Of 
course, she was on Reginald's side in the family 
quarrel, although she was the paid servant of the 
Foreign OflSce paragon. 



"And they are to be here next week. What 
day next week, Mrs. Hopkins ?" Mrs. Hopkins 
didn't know on what day she was to expect the 
visitors, nor how long they intended to stay. 
Mr. John Morton had said in his letter that he 
would send his own man down two days before 
his arrival, and that was nearly all that he had 
said. 

Then Morton started on his return walk to 
Dillsborough, again taking the path across the 
bridge. "Ah !" he said to himself, with a shud- 
der, as he crossed the stile, thinking of his own 
softened feelings as he had held out his hand to 
help Mary Masters, and then of his revulsion of 
feeling when she declared her purpose of walk- 
ing home with Mr, Twentyman. And he struck 
the rail of the biidge Avith his stick as though he 
were angry with the place altogether. And he 
thought to himself that he would never come 
there any more, that he hated the place, and 
that he would never cross that bridge again. 

Then his mind reverted to the tidings he had 
heard from Mrs. Hopkins. What ought he to 
do when his cousin arrived ? Though there had 
been a long lawsuit, there had been no actual 
declared quarrel between him and the heir. He 
had, indeed, never seen the heir for the last 
twenty years, nor had they ever interchanged 
letters. There had been no communication 
whatever between them, and therefore there 
could hardly be a quarrel. He disliked his 
cousin ; nay, almost hated him ; he was quite 
aware of that. And he was sure, also, that he 
hated that honorable old woman worse than any 
one else in the world, and that he always would 
do so. He knew that the honorable old woman 
had attempted to drive his own mother from 
Bragton, and, of course, he hated her. But that 
was no reason why he should not call on his 
cousin. He was anxious to do what was right. 
He was specially anxious that blame should not 
be attributed to him. What he would like best 
would be that he might call, might find nobody 
at home; and that then John Morton should 
not return the courtesy. He did not want to 
go to Bragton as a guest ; he did not wish to be 
in the wrong himself; but he was by no means 
equally anxious that his cousin should keep him- 
self free from reproach. 

The bridge-path came out on the Dillsborough 
road just two miles from the town, and Mor- 
ton, as he got over the last stile, saw Lawrence 
Twentyman coming toward him on the road. 
The man, no doubt, had gone all the way into 
Dillsborough with the girls, and was now return- 
ing home. The parish of Bragton lies to the 
left of the high-road as you go into the town 
from RufFord and the direction of London, 
whereas Chowton Farm, the property of Mr. 
Twentyman, is on the right of the road, but in 
the large parish of St. John's, Dillsborough. 
Dillsborough Wood lies at the back of Larry 
Twentyman's land ; and joining on to Larry's 
land, and also to the wood, is the patch of 
ground owned by "that scoundrel Goarly." 
Chowton Farm gate opens on to the high-road, 
so that Larry was now on his direct way home. 
As soon as he saw Morton, he made up his mind 
to speak to him. H-e was quite sure, from what 
had passed between him and the girls on the road 
home, that he had done something wrong. He 
was convinced that he had interfered in some 



20 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



ill-bred way, though he did not at all know how. 
Of Reginald Morton he was not in the least 
jealous. He, too, was of a jealous temperament, 
but it had never occurred to him to join Regi- 
nald Morton and Mary Masters together. He 
was very much in love with Mary, but had no 
idea that she was in any way above the posi- 
tion which she might naturally hold as daughter 
of the Dillsborough attorney. But of Reginald 
Morton's attributes and scholarship and general 
standing he had a mystified appreciation, which 
saved him from the pain of thinking that such a 
man could be in love with his sweetheart. As 
he certainly did not wish to quarrel with Morton, 
having always taken Reginald's side in the fami- 
ly disputes^ he thought that he would say a civ- 
il word in passing, and, if possible, apologize. 
When Morton came up, he raised his hand to his 
head, and did open his mouth, though not pro- 
nouncing any word very clearly. Morton look- 
ed at him as grim as death, just raised his hand, 
and then passed on with a quick step. Larry 
was displeased ; but the other was so thoroughly 
a gentleman — one of the Mortons, and a man of 
property in the county — that he didn't even yet 
wish to quarrel with him. "What the deuce 
have I done?" said he to himself, as he walked 
on. " I didn't tell her not to go up to the house. 
If I offered to walk with her, what was that to 
him ?" It must be remembered that Lawrence 
Twentyman was twelve years younger than Reg- 
inald Morton, and that a man of twenty-eight is 
apt to regard a man of forty as very much too 
old for falling in love. It is a mistake which it 
will take him fully ten years to rectify; and then 
he will make a similar mistake as to men of fif- 
ty. With his awe for Morton's combined learn- 
ing and age, it never occurred to him to be jeal- 
ous. 

Morton passed on rapidly, almost feeling that 
he had been a brute. But what business had the 
objectionable man to address him ? He tried to 
excuse himself, but yet he felt that he had been 
a brute, and had so demeaned himself in refer- 
ence to the daughter of the Dillsborough at- 
torney ! He would teach himself to do all he 
could to promote the marriage. He would give 
sage advice to Maiy Masters as to the wisdom 
of establishing herself, having, not an hour since, 
made up his mind that he would never see her 
again ! He would congratulate the attorney and 
Mrs. Masters. He would conquer the absurd 
feeling which at present was making him wretch- 
ed. He would cultivate some sort of acquaint- 
ance with the man, and make the happy pair a 
wedding present. But yet, what "a beast" the 
man was, with that billicock hat on one side of 
his head, and those tight leather gaiters ! 

As he passed through the town toward his 
own house, he saw Mr. Runciman standing in 
front of the hotel. His road took him up Hobbs 
Gate, by the corner of The Bush ; but Runci- 
man came a little out of the way to meet him. 
" You have heard the news ?" said the innkeeper. 

"I have heard one piece of news." 

"What's that, sir?" 

"Come — you tell me yours first." 

"The young squire is coming down to Brag- 
ton next week. " 

"That's my news too. It is not likely that 
there should be two matters of interest in Dills- 
borough on the same day." 



"I don't know why Dillsborough should be 
worse off than any other place, Mr. Morton; 
but, at any rate, the squire's coming." 

"So Mrs. Hopkins told me. Has he written 
to you ?" 

"His coachman or his groom has; or per- 
haps he keeps what they call an ekkery. He's 
much too big a swell to write to the likes of me. 
Lord bless me, when I think of it, I wonder how 
many dozen of orders I've had fiom Lord Ruf- 
ford under his own hand. 'Dear Runciman, 
dinner at eight ; ten of us ; won't wait a mo- 
ment. Yours, R.' I suppose Mr. Morton would 
think that his lordship had let himself down by 
any thing of that sort." 

" What does my cousin want?" 

"Two pair of horses — for a week certain, and 
perhaps longer, and two carriages. How am I 
to let any one have two pair of horses for a 
week certain — and perhaps longer? What are 
other customers to do ? I can supply a gentle- 
man by the month, and buy horses to suit ; or I 
can supply him by the job. But I guess Mr. 
Morton don't well know how things are managed 
in this country. He'll have to learn." 

"What day does he come?" 

" They haven't told me that yet, Mr. Morton." 



CHAPTER VIL 



THE WALK HOME, 



Makt Masters, when Reginald Morton had 
turned his back upon her at the bridge, wns 
angry with herself and with him — which was 
reasonable, and very angry also with Larry Twen- 
tyman — which was unreasonable. As she had 
at once acceded to Morton's proposal that they 
should walk round the house together, surely he 
should not have deserted her so soon. It had not 
been her fault that the other man had come up. 
She had not wanted him. But she was aware 
that when the option had in some sort been left 
to herself, she had elected to walk back with 
Larry. She knew her own motives and her own 
feelings, but neither of the men would understand 
them. Because she preferred the company of 
Mr. Morton, and had at the moment feared that 
her sisters would have deserted her had she fol- 
lowed him, therefore she had declared her pur- 
pose of going back to Dillsborough ; in doing 
which, she knew that Larry and the girls would 
accompany her. But, of course, Mr. Morton 
would think that she had preferred the company 
of her recognized admirer. It was pretty well 
known in Dillsborough that Larry was her lover. 
Her step -mother had spoken of it very freely, 
and Larry himself was a man who did not keep 
his lights hidden under a bushel. 

"I hope I've not been in the way, Mary," 
said Mr. Twentyman, as soon as Morton was out 
of hearing. 

" In the way of what ?" 

"I didn't think there was any harm in offer- 
ing to go up to the house with you if you were 
going." 

"Who has said there was any hai-m?" The 
path was only broad enougli for one, and she 
was walking first. Larry was following her, and 
the girls were behind him. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



21 



"I think that Mr. Morton is a very stack-up 
fellow," said Kate, who was the last. 

"Hold your tongue, Kate," said Mary. "You 
don't know what you are talking about." 

" I know as well as any one when a person is 
good-natured. What made him go off in that 
hoity-toity fashion ? Nobody had said any thing 
to him." 

" He always looks as though he were going t» 
eat somebody," said Dolly. 

" He sha'n't eat me," said Kate. 

Then there was a pause, during which they 
all went along quickly, Mary leading the way. 
Lany, of course, felt that he was wasting his op- 
portunity, and yet hardly knew how to use it, 
feeling that the girl was angry with him. 

" I wish you'd say, Mary, whether you think 
that I did any thing wrong." 

"Nothing wrong to me, Mr. Twentyman. " 

" Did I do any thing wrong to him?" 

"I don't know how far you may be acquaint- 
ed with him. He was proposing to go some- 
where, and you offered to go with him." 

"I offered to go with you," said LaiTy, stur- 
dily. " I suppose I'm sufficiently acquainted 
with you." 

"Quite so," said Mary. 

"Why should he be so proud? I never said 
an uncivil word to him. He's nothing to me. 
If he can do without me, I'm sure that I can do 
without him." 

" Very well, indeed, I should think." 

" The truth is, Mary — " 

" There has been quite enough said about it, 
Mr. Twentyman." 

" The truth is, Mary, I came on purpose to 
have a word with you. " 

Hearing this, Kate rushed on and pulled Larry 
by the tail of his coat. 

" How did you know I was to be there?" de- 
manded Maiy, sharply. 

"I didn't know. I had reason to think you 
perhaps might be there. The girls, I knew, had 
been asking you to come as far as the bridge. 
At any rate, I took my chance. I'd seen him 
some time before, and then I saw you." 

"If I'm to be watched about in that way," 
said Mary, angrily, ' ' I won't go out at all. " 

"Of course I want to see you. Why shouldn't 
I ? I'm all fair and above board ; ain't I ? 
Your father and mother know all about it. It 
isn't as though I were doing any thing clandes- 
tine." 

He paused for a reply, but Mary walked on in 
silence. She knew quite well that he was war- 
ranted in seeking her, and that nothing but a 
very positive decision on her part could put an 
end to his courtship. At the present moment 
she was inclined to be very positive, but he had 
hardly as yet given her an opportunity of speak- 
ing out. " I think you know, Mary, what it is 
that I want." 

They were now at a rough stile, which enabled 
him to come close up to her and help her. She 
tripped over the stile with a light step, and again 
walked on rapidly. The field they were in en- 
abled him to get up to her side, and now, if ever, 
was his opportunity. It was a long, straggling 
nieadow, which he knew well, with the Dill run- 
ning by it all the way — or rather two meadows, 
with an opened space where there had once been 
a gate. He had ridden through the gap a score 



of times, and knew that at the farther side of the 
second meadow they would come upon the high- 
road. The fields were certainly much better for 
his purpose than the road. 

"Don't you think, Mary, you could say a kind 
word to me?" 

" I never said any thing unkind." 

"You can't think ill of me for loving you bet- 
ter than all the world." 

" I don't think ill of you at all. I think very 
well of you." 

"That's kind." 

"So I do. How can I help thinking well of 
you, when I've never heard any thing but good 
of you ?" 

"Then, why shouldn't you say at once that 
you'll have me, and make me the happiest man 
in all the county?" 

"Because — " 

"Well!" 

" I told you before, Mr. Twentyman, and that 
ought to have been enough. A young woman 
doesn't fall in love witli every man that she 
thinks well of. I should like you as well as all 
the rest of the family, if you would only marry 
some other girl. " 

"I shall never do that." 

"Yes, you will, some day." 

"Never. I've set my heart upon it, and I 
mean to stick to it. I'm not the fellow to turn 
about from one girl to another. What I want is 
the girl I love. I've money enough, and all tiiat 
kind of thing, of my own." 

"I'm sure you're disinterested, Mr. Twenty- 
man." 

"Yes, I am. Ever since you've been home 
from Bragton it has been the same thing ; and 
when I felt that it was so, I spoke up to your 
father honestly. I haven't been beating about 
the bush, and I haven't done any thing that 
wasn't honorable." They were very near the 
last stile now, " Come, Mary, if you won't make 
me a promise, say you'll think of it." 

"I have thought of it, Mr. Twentyman, and I 
can't make you any other answer. I dare say 
I'm very foolish." 

"I wish you were more foolish. Perhaps 
then you wouldn't be so hard to please." 

" Whether I'm wise or foolish, indeed, indeed, 
it's no good your going on. Now we're on the 
road. Pray go back home, Mr. Twentyman." 

" It'll be getting dark in a little time." 

"Not before we're in Dillsborough, If it were 
ever so dark, we could find our way home by our- 
selves. Come along, Dolly. " 

Over the last stile he had staid a moment to 
help the younger girl, and as he did so Kate 
whispered a word in his ear, " She's angry be- 
cause she couldn't go up to the house with that 
stuck-up fellow." It was a foolish word ; but, 
then, Kate Masters had not had much experience 
in the world. 

Whether overcome by Mary's resolute mode 
of speaking, or aware that the high-road would 
not suit his pui-pose, he did turn back as soon as 
he had seen them a little way on their return to- 
ward the town. He had not gone half a mile 
before he met Morton, and had been half mind- 
ed to make some apology to him. But Morton 
had denied him the opportunity, and he had 
walked on to his own house — low in spirits, in- 
deed, but still with none of that sorest of agony 



22 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



which comes to a lover from the feeling that his 
love loves some one else. Mary had been very 
decided with him — more so, he feared, than be- 
fore ; but still he saw no reason why he should 
not succeed at last. Mrs. Masters had told him 
that Mary would certainly give a little trouble in 
winning, but would be the more worth the win- 
ner's trouble when won. And she had certainly 
shown no preference for any other young man 
about the town. There had been a moment 
when he had much dreaded Mr. Surtees. Young 
clergymen are apt to be fonnidable rivals, and 
Mr. Surtees had certainly made some overtures 
of friendship to Mary Masters. But Lany had 
thought that he had seen that these overtures 
had not led to much, and then that fear had 
gone from him. He did believe that Mary was 
now angry because she had not been allowed to 
walk about Bragton with her old friend Mr. Mor- 
ton. It had been natural that she should like to 
do so. It was the pride of Mary's life that she 
had been befriended by the Mortons and Lady 
Ushant. But it did not occur to him that he 
ought to be jealous of Mr. Morton, though it had 
occurred to Kate Masters. 

There was veiy little said between the sisters 
on their way back to the town. Maiy was pret- 
ty sure now that the two girls had made the ap- 
pointment with Larry, but she was unwilling to 
question them on the subject. Immediately on 
their arrival at home they heard the great news. 
John Morton was coming to Bragton with a 
party of ladies and gentlemen. Mrs. Hopkins 
had spoken of four persons. Mrs. Masters told 
Mary that there were to be a dozen at least, and 
that four or five pairs of horses and half a dozen 
carriages had been ordered from Mr. Eunciman. 

" He means to cut a dash when he does be- 
gin," said Mr, Masters. 

" Is he going to staj, mother ?" 

"He wouldn't come down in that way if it 
was only for a few days, I suppose. But what 
they will do for furniture I don't know. " 

"There's plenty of furniture, mother." 

"A thousand years old. Or for wine, or fruit, 
or plate." 

"The old plate was there when Lady Ushant 
left." 

' ' People do things now in a very different way 
from what they used. A couple of dozen silver 
forks made quite a show on the old squire's ta- 
ble. Now they change the things so often that 
ten dozen is nothing. I don't suppose there's a 
bottle of wine in the cellar." 

" They can get wine from Cobbold, mothei*." 

" Cobbold's wine won't go down with them, I 
fancy. I wonder what servants they're bring- 
ing." 

When Mr. Masters came in from his office, 
the news M-as corroborated. Mr. John Morton 
was certainly coming to Bragton. The attorney 
had still a small unsettled and disputed claim 
against the owner of the property, and he had 
now received by the day mail an answer to a let- 
ter which he had written to Mr. Morton, saying 
tihat that gentleman would see him in the course 
of the next fortnight. 



CHAPTER VIIL 

THE PABAGON'S party AT BRAGTON. 

There was certainly a great deal of fuss made 
about John Morton's return to the home of his 
ancestors — made altogether by himself and those 
about him, and not by those who were to receive 
him. On the Thursday in the week following 
that of which we have been speaking, two car- 
riages from The Bush met the party at the rail- 
way-station and took them to Bragton. Mr. 
Eunciman, after due consideration, put up with 
the inconsiderate nature of the order given, and 
supplied the coaches and horses as required, 
consoling himself, no doubt, with the reflection 
that he could charge for the unreasonableness of 
the demand in the bill. The coachman and but- 
ler had come down two days before their master, 
so that things might be in order. Mrs. Hopkins 
learned from the butler that though the party 
would at first consist only of three, two other 
very august persons were to follow on the Sat- 
urday — no less than Lady Augustus Trefoil and 
her daughter Arabella. And Mrs. Hopkins Avas 
soon led to imagine, thougli no positive informa- 
tion was given to her on the subject, that Miss 
Trefoil was engaged to be married to their mas- 
ter. "Will he live here altogether, Mr. Tank- 
ard?" Mrs. Hopkins asked. To this question 
Mr. Tankard was able to give a very definite an- 
swer. He was quite sure that Mr. Morton would 
not live anywhere altogether. According to Mr. 
Tankard's ideas, the whole foreign policy of En- 
gland depended on Mr. John Morton's presence 
in some capital, either in Europe, Asia, or Amer- 
ica — upon Mr. Morton's presence, and, of course, 
upon his own also. Mr. Tankard thought it not 
improbable that they might soon be wanted at 
Hong Kong, or some very distant place ; but in 
the mean time they were bound to be back at 
Washington very shortly. Tankai'd had himself 
been at Washington, and also before that at Lis- 
bon, and could tell Mrs. Hopkins how utterly un- 
important had been the actual ministers at those 
places, and how the welfare of England had de- 
pended altogether on the discretion and general 
omniscience of his young master — and of him- 
self. He, Tankard, had been the only person in 
Washington who had really known in what order 
Americans should go out to dinner one after an- 
other. Mr. Elias Gotobed, who was coming, was 
perhaps the most distinguished American of the 
day, and was senator for Mikewa. 

"Mickey war!" said poor Mrs. Hopkins; 
' ' that's been one of them terrible American wars 
we used to hear of. " Then Tankard explained 
to her that Mikewa was one of the Western 
States, and Mr. Elias Gotobed was a great re- 
publican, who had very advanced opinions of his 
own respecting government, liberty, and public 
institutions in general. With Mr. Morton and 
the Senator was coming the Honorable Mrs. Mor- 
ton. The lady had her lady's maid, and Mr. 
Morton had his own man ; so that there would 
be a great influx of persons. 

Of course there was very much perturbation of 
spirit. Mrs. Hopkins, after that first letter, the 
contents of which she had communicated to Reg- 
inald Morton, had received various dispatches 
and been asked various questions. Could she 
find a cook ? Could she find two house-maids ? 
And all these were only wanted for a time. In 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



23 



her distress she went to Mrs. Runciman, and did 
get assistance. "I suppose he thinks he's to 
have the cook out of my kitchen," Runciman 
had said. Somebody, however, was found who 
said she could cook, and two girls who professed 
that they knew how to make beds. And in this 
way an establishment was ready before the ar- 
rival of the Secretary of Legation and the great 
American Senator. Those other questions of 
wine and plate and vegetables had, no doubt, set- 
tled themselves after some fashion. 

John Morton had come over to England on 
leave of absence for four months, and had brought 
with him the Senator from Mikewa. The Sen- 
ator had never been in England before, and was 
especially anxious to study the British Constitu- 
tion, and to see the ways of Britons with his own 
eyes. He had only been a fortnight in London 
before this journey down to the county had been 
planned. Mr. Gotobed wished to see English 
country life, and thought that he could not, on 
his first arrival, have a better opportunity. It 
must be explained, also, that there was another 
motive for this English rural sojourn. Lady Au- 
gustus Trefoil, who was an adventurous lady, 
had been traveling in the United States with her 
daughter, and had there fallen in with Mr. John 
Morton. Arabella Trefoil was a beauty and a 
woman of fashion, and had captivated the Para- 
gon. An engagement had been made, subject 
to various stipulations ; the consent of Lord Au- 
gustus, in the first place — as to which, John 
Morton, Avho only understood foreign affairs, was 
not aware, as he would have been had he lived 
in England, that Lord Augustus was nobody. 
Lady Arabella had spoken freely as to settle- 
ments, value of property, life-insurance, and such 
matters, and had spoken firmly as well as free- 
ly, expressing doubt as to the expediency of such 
an engagement ; all of which had surprised Mr. 
Morton considerably, for the young lady had at 
first been left in his hands with almost American 
freedom. And now Lady Augustus and her 
daughter were coming down on a visit of inspec- 
tion. They had been told, as had the Senator, 
that things would be in the I'ough. The house 
had not been pi-opei'ly inhabited for nearly a 
quarter of a century. The Senator had express- 
ed himself quite contented. Lady Arabella had 
only hoped that every thing would be made as 
comfortable as possible for lier daughter. I 
don't know what more could have been done at 
so short a notice than to order two carriages, two 
house-maids, and a cook. 

A word or two must also be said of the old 
lady, who made one of the party. The Honor- 
able Mrs. Morton was now seventy, but no old 
lady ever showed less signs of advanced age. It 
is not to be understood from this that she was 
beautiful, but that she was very strong. What 
might be the color of her hair, or whether she 
had any, no man had known for many years. 
But she wore so perfect a front that some people 
were absolutely deluded. She was very much 
wrinkled ; but as there are wrinkles which seem 
to come from the decay of those muscles which 
should uphold tlie skin, so are there others which 
seem to denote that the owner has simply got 
rid of the watery weaknesses of juvenility. Mrs. 
Morton's wrinkles were strong wrinkles. She 
was thin, but always carried herself bolt-upright, 
and would never even lean back in her chair. 



She had a great idea of her duty, and hated ev- 
ery body who differed from her with her whole 
heart. She was the daughter of a viscount, a 
fact which she never forgot for a single moment, 
and which she thought gave her positive superi- 
ority to all women who were not the daughters 
of dukes or marquises, or of earls. Therefore, 
as she did not live much in the fashionable world, 
she rarely met any one above herself. Her own 
fortune on her marriage had been small, but now 
she was a rich woman. Her husband had been 
deiad nearly half a century, and during the whole 
of that time she had been saving money. To 
two charities she gave annually five pounds per 
annum each. Duty demanded it, and the mon- 
ey was given. Beyond that, she had never been 
known to spend a penny in charity. Duty, she 
had said more than once, required of her that 
she do something to repair the ravages made on 
the Morton property by the preposterous extrav- 
agance of the old squire in regard to his younger 
son, and that son's — child. In her anger, she 
had not hesitated on different occasions to call 
the present Reginald a bastard, though the ex- 
pression was a wicked calumny for which there 
was no excuse. Without any aid of hers, the 
Morton property had repaired itself. There had 
been a minority of thirteen or fourteen years, and 
since that time the present owner had not spent 
his income. But John Morton was not himself 
averse to money, and had always been careful to 
maintain good relations with his grandmother. 
She had now been asked down to Bragton in 
order that she might approve, if possible, of the 
proposed wife. It was not likely that she should 
approve absolutely of any thing ; but to have 
married without an appeal to her, would have 
been to have sent the money flying into the 
hands of some of her poor paternal cousins. 
Arabella Trefoil was the granddaughter of a 
duke, and a step had so far been made in the 
right direction. But Mrs. Morton knew that 
Lord Augustus was nobody, that there would be 
no money, and that Lady Augustus had been tlie 
daughter of a banker, and that her fortune had 
been nearly squandered. 

The Paragon was not in the least afraid of 
his American visitor, nor, as far as the comforts 
of his house were concerned, of his grandmoth- 
er. Of the beauty and her mother he did stand 
iri awe, but he had two days in which to look 
to things before they would come. The ti-ain 
reached the Dillsborough Station at half- past 
three, and the two carriages were there to meet 
them. "You will understand, Mr. Gotobed," 
said the old lady, " that my grandson has noth- 
ing of his own established here as yet." This 
little excuse was produced by certain patch®s 
and tears in the cushions and linings of the eair- 
riages. Mr. Gotobed smiled and bowed, and 
declared that every thing was "fixed cowven- 
ient." Then the Senator followed the oM lady 
into one carriage, Mr. Morton followed alone 
into the other, and they were driven away to 
Bragton. 

When Mrs. Hopkins had taken the two ladies 
up to their rooms, Mr. Morton asked the Senator 
to walk round the grounds. Mr. Gotobed, light- 
ing an enormous cigar, of which he put half down 
his throat for more commodious and quick con- 
sumption, walked on to the middle of the drive, 
and, turning back, looked up at the house. 



24 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



" Quite a pile," he said, ob.«erving that the of- 
fices and outhouses extended a long way to the 
left till they almost joined other buildings in 
which were the stables and coach-house. 

"It's a good-sized house," said the owner; 
"nothing very particular, as houses are built 
nowadays." 

"Damp, I should say." 

"I think not. I have never lived here much 
myself, but I have not heard that it was con- 
sidered so." 

"I guess it's damp. Very lonely, isn't it?" 

"We like to have our society inside among 
ourselves, in the country." 

"Keep a sort of hotel — like?" suggested Mr. 
Gotobed. "Well, I don't dislike hotel life, 
especially when there are no charges. How 
many servants do you want, to keep up such a 
house as that?" 

Mr. Morton explained that at present he knew 
very little about it himself; then led him away 
by the path over the bridge, and, turning to the 
left, showed him the building which had once 
been the kennels of the Rufford hounds. 

"All that for dogs !" exclaimed Mr. Gotobed. 

"All for dogs," said Morton. "Hounds, we 
generally call them." 

" Hounds, are they? Well, I'll remember; 
though "dogs" seems to me more civil. How 
many used there to be ?" 

' ' About fifty couple, I think. " 

"A hundred dogs ! No wonder your country 
gentlemen burst up so often. Wouldn't half a 
dozen do as well — except for the show of the 
thing?" 

"Half a dozen hounds couldn't hunt a fox, 
Mr. Gotobed." 

' ' I guess half a dozen would do just as well, 
only for the show. What strikes me, Mr. Mor- 
ton, on visiting this old country, is that so much 
is done for show." 

"What do vou say to New York, Mr. Goto- 
bed?" 

" There certainly are a couple of hundred fools 
in New York, who, having more money than 
brains, amuse themselves by imitating European 
follies. But you won't find that through the 
country, Mr. Morton. You won't find a hun- 
dred dogs at an American planter's house when 
ten or twelve would do as well." 

"Hunting is not one of your amusements." 

"Yes, it is. I've been a hunter myself. I've 
had nothing to eat but what I killed, for a month 
together. That's more than any of your hunters 
can say. A hundred dogs to kill one fox !" 

"Not all at the same time, Mr. Gotobed." 

"And you have got none now ?" 

"1 don't hunt myself." 

" And does nobody hunt the foxes about here 
at present ?" Then Morton explained that, on 
the Saturday following, the U. R. U. hounds, un- 
der the mastership of that celebrated sportsman 
Captain Glomax, would meet at eleven o'clock 
exactly at the spot on which they were then 
standing, and that if Mr. Gotobed would walk 
out after breakfast he would see the whole paia- 
phernalia,including about half a hundred "dogs," 
and perhaps a couple of hundred men on horse- 
back. 

"I shall be delighted to see any institution of 
this great country," said Mr. Gotobed, "howev- 
er much opposed it may be to my opinion either 



of utility or rational recreation." Then, having 
nearly eaten up one cigar, he lighted another, 
preparatory to eating it, and sauntered back to 
the house. 

Before dinner that evening there were a few 
words between the Paragon and his grandmoth- 
er. "I'm afraid you won't like my American 
friend," he said. 

"He is all very well, John. Of course an 
American member of Congress can't be an En- 
glish gentleman. You, in your position, have to 
be civil to such people. I dare say I shall get 
on very well with Mr. Gotobed. " 

" I must get somebody to meet him." 

" Lady Augustus and her daughter are com- 
ing." 

" They knew each other in Washington. And 
there will be so many ladies. " 

" You could ask the Coopers from Mailing- 
ham," suggested the lady, 

" I don't think they would dine out. He's 
getting very old." 

"And I am told the Mainwarings at Dills- 
borough are very nice people," said Mrs. Morton, 
who knew that Mr. Mainwaring, at any rate, 
came from a good family. 

"I suppose they ought to call first. I nev- 
er saw them in my life. Reginald Morton, you 
know, is living at Hoppet Hall, in Dillsborough." 

" You don't mean to say you wrote to ask 
him to this house." 

"I think I ought. Why should I take upon 
myself to quarrel with a man I liave not seen 
since I was a child, and who certainly is my 
cousin ?" 

" I do not know that he is your cousin, nor do 
you." 

John Morton passed by the calumny, which he 
had heard before, and which he knew that it was 
no good for him to attempt to subvert. "He 
was received here as one of the family, ma'am." 

" I know he was ; and with what result ?" 

"I don't think that I ought to turn my back 
upon him because my great-grandfather left 
property away from me to him. It would give 
me a bad name in the county. It would be 
against me when I settle down to live here. I 
think quarreling is the most foolish thing a man 
can do, especially with his own relations." 

"I can only say this, John: let me know if 
he is coming, so that I may not be called upon 
to meet him. I will not eat at table with Reg- 
inald Morton." So saying, the old lady, in a 
stately fashion, stalked out of the room. 



CHAPTER IX. 



THK OLD KENNELS. 



On the next moraing Mrs. Morton asked her 
grandson what he meant to do with reference to 
his suggested invitation to Reginald. "As j'ou 
will not meet him, of course I have given up the 
idea," he said. The "of course" had been far 
from true. He had debated the matter very 
much with himself. He was an obstinate man, 
with something of independence in his spirit. 
He liked money, but he liked having his own 
way too. The old lady looked as though she 
might live to be a hundred ; and though she 
might last only for ten years longer, was it 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



worth his while to be a slave for that time? 
And he was by no means sure of her money, 
though he should be a slave. He almost made 
up his mind that he would ask Reginald Morton. 
But then the old lady would be in her tantrums, 
and there would be the disagreeable necessity of 
making an explanation to that inquisitive gentle- 
man, Mr. Elias Gotobed. 

"I couldn't have met him, John ; I couldn't, 
indeed. I remember so well all that occurred 
when your poor, infatuated, old great-grandfather 
would have that woman into the house ! I was 
forced to have my meals in my bedroom, and to 
get myself taken away as soon as I could get a 
carriage and horses. After all that, I ought not 
to be asked to meet the child." 

**I was thinking of asking old Mr. Cooper on 
Monday. I know she doesn't go out. And per- 
haps Mr. Mainwaring wouldn't take it amiss. 
Mr. Puttock, I know, isn't at home ; but if he 
were, he couldn't come." 

Mr. Puttock was the rector of Bragton, a very 
rich living, but was unfortunately afflicted with 
asthma. 

" Poor man ! I heard of that ; and he's only 
been here about six years. I don't see why Mr. 
Mainwaring should take it amiss at all. You 
can explain that you are only here for a few 
days. I like to meet clergymen. I think that 
it is the duty of a country gentleman to ask them 
to his house. It shows a proper regard for re- 
ligion, By-the-bye, John, I hope that you'll see 
that they have a fire in the church on Sunday." 

The Honorable Mrs. Morton always went to 
church, and had no doubt of her own sincerity 
when she reiterated her prayer that as she for- 
gave others their trespasses, so might she be for- 
given hers. As Reginald Morton had certainly 
never trespassed against her, perhaps there was 
no reason why her thoughts should be carried to 
the necessity of forgiving him. 

The Paragon wrote two very diplomatic notes, 
explaining liis temporary residence, and express- 
ing his great desire to become acquainted with 
his neighbors. Neither of the two clergymen 
was offended, and both of them promised to eat 
their dinner on Monday. Mr. Mainwaring was 
very fond of dining out, and would have gone 
almost to any gentleman's house. Mr. Cooper 
was old enough in the neighborhood to have 
known the old squire, and wrote an affectionate 
note expressing his gratification at the prospect 
of renewing his acquaintance with the little boy 
whom he remembered. So the party was made 
up for Monday. John Morton was very nervous 
on the matter, feeling that Lady Augustus would 
think the land to be barren. 

The Friday passed by without much difficulty. 
The Senator was driven about, and every thing 
was inquired into. One or two farm-houses were 
visited, and the farmers' wives were much dis- 
turbed by the questions asked them. 

"I don't think they'd get a living in the 
States," was the Senator's remark after leaving 
one of the homesteads, in which neither the 
farmer nor his wife had shown much 7J0\ver of 
conversation. 

*'Then they're right to stay where they are," 
replied Mi*. Morton, who, in spite of his diplo- 
macy, could not save himself from being nettled. 
" They seem to get a very good living here, and 
they pay their rent punctually. " 



On the Saturday morning the hounds met at 
the "Old Kennels," as the meet was always call- 
ed, and here was an excellent opportunity of 
showing to Mr. Gotobed one of the great institu- 
tions of the country. It was close to the house, 
and therefore could be reached without any 
trouble ; and as it was held on Morton's own 
ground, he could do more toward making his 
visitor understand the thing than might have 
been possible elsewhere. When the hounds 
moved, the carriage would be ready to take them 
about the roads, and show them as much as could 
be seen on wheels. 

Punctually at eleven, John Morton and his 
American guest were on the bridge, and Tony 
Tuppett was already occupying his wonted place, 
seated on a strong gray mare that had done a 
great deal of work, but would live, as Tony used 
to say, to do a great deal more. Round him the 
hounds were clustered — twenty-three couples in 
all — some seated on their haunches, some stand- 
ing obediently still, while a few moved about 
restlessly, subject to the voices, and, on one or 
two occasions, to a gentle administration of thong 
from the attendant whips. Four or five horse- 
men were clustering round, most of them farm- 
ers, and were talking to Tony. Our friend Mr. 
Twentyman was the only man in a red coat who 
had yet arrived, and with him, on her brown 
pony, was Kate Masters, who was listening with 
all her ears to every word that Tony said. 

"That, I guess, is the captain you spoke of," 
said the Senator, pointing to Tony Tuppett. 

"Oh no; that's the huntsman. Those three 
men in caps are the servants who do the work." 

"The dogs can't be brought out without serv- 
ants to mind them ! They're what you call 
gamekeepei's. " Morton was explaining that the 
men were not gamekeepers, when Captain Glo- 
max himself arrived, driving a tandem. There 
was no road up to the spot, but on hunt morn- 
ings, or at any rate when the meet was at the 
old kennels, the park -gates were open so that 
vehicles could come up on the greensward. 

"That's Captain Glomax, I suppose," said 
Morton. "I don't know him; but, from the 
way he's talking to the huntsman, you may be 
sure of it." 

" He is the great man, is he ? All these dogs 
belong to him ?" 

" Either to him or the hunt." 

"And he pa)'s for those servants?" 

"Certainly." 

"He is a very rich man, I suppose." Then 
Mr, Morton endeavored to explain the position 
of Captain Glomax. He was not rich. He was 
no one in particular, except Captain Glomax ; 
and his one 'attribute was a knowledge of hunt- 
ing. He didn't keep the "dogs " out of his own 
pocket. He received two thousand pounds a 
year from the gentlemen of the county, and he 
himself only paid any thing which the hounds 
and horses might cost over that. 

"He's a sort of upper servant, then?" asked 
the Senator. 

" Not at all. He's the greatest man in the 
county on hunting days." 

" Does he live out of it ?" 

"I should think not." 

" It's a deal of trouble, isn't it ?" 

" Full work for an active man's time, I should 
say." A great many more questions were asked 



26 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



and answered, at the end of which the Senator 
declared that he did not quite understand it, but 
that, as far as he saw, he did not think very much 
of Captain Glomax. 

"If he could make a living out of it, I should 
respect him," said the Senator; "though it's 
like knife-grinding or handling arsenic — an un- 
wholesome sort of profession." 

"1 think they look very nice," said Morton, 
as one or two well-turned out young men rode 
up to the place. 

' ' They seem to me to have thought more about 
their breeches than any thing else," said the Sen- 
ator. " But if they're going to hunt, why don't 
they hunt ? Have they got a fox with them ?" 
Then there was a further explanation. 

At this moment there was a murmur as of a 
great coming arrival, and then an open carriage 
with four post-horses was brought at a quick trot 
into the open space. There were four men 
dressed for hunting inside, and two others on the 
box. They were all smoking, and all talking. 
It was easy to see that they did not consid- 
er themselves the least among those who were 
gathered together on this occasion. The car- 
riage was immediately surrounded by grooms 
and horses, and the ceremony of disencumber- 
ing themselves of great-coats and aprons, of put- 
ting on spurs and fastening hat-strings, was com- 
menced. Then there were whispered communi- 
cations from the grooms, and long faces under 
some of the liats. This horse hadn't been fit 
since last Monday's run, and that man's hack 
wasn't as it should be. A muttered curse might 
have been heard from one gentleman as he was 
told, on jumping from the box, that Harry Stub- 
bings hadn't sent him any second horse to ride. 
"I didn't hear nothing about it till yesterday, 
captain," said Harry Stubbings, " and eveiy foot 
I had fit to come out was bespoke." The groom, 
liowever, who heard this was quite aware that 
Mr, Stubbings did not wish to give unlimited 
credit to the captain, and he knew also that the 
second horse was to have carried his master the 
whole day, as the animal which was brought to 
the meet had been ridden hard on the previous 
"Vyednesday. At all this the Senator looked with 
curious eyes, thinking that he had never in his 
life seen brought together a set of more useless 
human beings. 

"That is Lord Rufford," said Morton, point- 
ing to a stout, ruddy-faced, handsome man of 
about thirty, who was the owner of the carriage. 

" Oh, a lord. Do the lords hunt generally ?" 

"That's as they like it." 

"Senators with us wouldn't have time for 
that," said the Senator. 

"But you are paid to do your work." 

"Every body from whom work is expected 
should be paid. Then the work will be done, or 
those who pay will know the reason why." 

"I must speak to Lord RufFord," said Morton. 
"If you'll come with me, I'll introduce you." 
The Senator followed willingly enough, and the 
introduction was made while his lordship was 
still standing by his horse. The two men had 
known each other in London, and it was natural 
that Morton, as owner of the ground, should 
come out and speak to the only man who knew 
him. It soon Avas spread about that the gentle- 
man talking to Lord Ruiford was John Morton, 
and many who lived in the county came up to 



shake hands with him. To some of these the 
Senator was introduced, and the conversation 
for a few minutes seemed to interrupt the busi- 
ness on hand. 

" I am sorry you should be on foot, Mr. Goto- 
bed," said the lord. 

"And I am sorry that I can not mount him," 
said Mr. Morton. 

"We can soon get over that diflSculty, if he 
will allow me to offer him a horse." * 

The Senator looked as though he would al- 
most like it, but he didn't quite like it. "Per- 
haps your house might kick me off, my lord." 

" I can't answer for that ; but he isn't given 
to kicking, and there he is, if you'll get on him." 
But the Senator felt that the exhibition would 
suit neither his age nor position, and refused. 

"We'd better be moving," said Captain Glo- 
max. " I suppose. Lord Rufibrd, we might as 
well trot over to Dillsborough Wood at once. I 
saw Bean as I came along, and he seemed to 
wish we should draw the wood first." 

Then there was a little whispering between 
his lordship and the master and Tony Tuppett. 
His lordship thought that, as Mr. Morton was 
there, the hounds might as well be run through 
the Bragton spinnies. Tony made a wry face 
and shook his head. He knew that, though the 
old kennels might be a very good place for meet- 
ing, there was no chance of finding a fox at 
Bragton. And Captain Glomax, who, being an 
itinerary master, had no respect whatever for a 
country gentleman who didn't presei-ve, also 
made a long face and also shook his head. But 
Lord Rufford, who knew the wisdom of reconcil- 
ing a new-comer in the county to fox-hunting, 
prevailed, and the hounds and men were taken 
round a part of Bragton Park. 

"What 'd t' old squire 've said if he'd 've 
known there hadn't been a fox at Bragton for 
more nor ten year ?" This remark was made by 
Tuppett to Mr. Runciman, who was riding by 
him. 

Mr. Runciman replied that there was a great 
difference in people. 

"You may say that, Mr. Runciman. It's all 
changes. His lordship's father couldn't bear tlie 
sight of a hound, nor a horse and saddle. Well, 
I suppose I needn't gammon any furder. We'll 
just trot across to the wood at once." 

"They haven't begun yet, as far as I can see," 
said Mr. Gotobed, standing up in the carriage. 

"They haven't found as yet," replied Mor- 
ton. 

"They must go on till they find a fox? They 
never bring him with tliem ?" Then there was 
an explanation as to bagged foxes, Morton not 
being very conversant with the subject he had to 
explain. "And if they shouldn't find one all 
day ?" 

"Then it'll be a blank." 

"And these hundred gentlemen will go home 
quite satisfied with themselves?" 

" No ; they'll go home quite dissatisfied." 

"And have paid their money and given their 
time for nothing ? Do you know it doesn't seem 
to me the most heart-stirring thing in the world. 
Don't they ride faster than that?" At this mo- 
ment Tony, with the hounds at his heels, was 
trotting across the park at a huntsman's usual 
pace from covert to covert. The Senator was 
certainlv ungracious. Nothing that he saw 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



produced from him a single word expressive of 
satisfaction. 

Less than a mile brought them to the gate and 
road leading up to Chowton Farm. They pass- 
ed direct by Larry Twentyman's door, and not 
a few, though it was not yet more than half-past 
eleven, stopped to have a glass of Larry's beer. 
When the hounds were in the neighborhood, 
lorry's beer was always ready. But Tony and 
his attendants trotted by with eyes averted, as 
though no thought of beer were in their minds. 
Nothing had been done, and a huntsman is not 
entitled to beer till he has found a fox. Cap- 
tain Glomax followed with Lord Rufford and a 
host of others. There was plenty of way here 
for carriages, and half a dozen vehicles passed 
through Larry's farm-yard. Immediately behind 
the house was a meadow, and at the bottom of 
the meadow a stubble-field, next to which were 
the ditch and bank which formed the bounds 
of Dillsborough "Wood. Just at this side of the 
gate leading into the stubble-field there was al- 
ready a concourse of people when Tony arrived 
near it with the hounds, and immediately there 
was a hallooing and loud screeching of direc- 
tions, which was soon understood to mean that 
the hounds were at once to be taken away. The 
captain rode on rapidly, and then sharply gave 
his orders. Tony was to take the hounds back 
to Mr. Twentyman's farm -yard as fast as he 
could, and shut them up in a barn. The whips 
were put into violent commotion. Tony was 
eagerly at work. Not a hound was to be allow- 
ed near the gate. And then, as the crowd of 
horsemen and carriages came on, the word 
"poison" was passed among them from mouth 
to mouth. 

"What does all this mean?" said the Senator. 

"I don't at all know. I'm afraid there's 
something wrong," replied Moi'ton. 

"I heard that man say 'poison.' They have 
taken the dogs back again." Then the Senator 
and Morton got out of the carriage and made 
their way into the crowd. The riders, Avho had 
grooms on second horses, were soon on foot, and 
a circle was made, inside which there was some 
object of intense interest. In the mean time the 
hounds had been secured in one of Mr. Twenty- 
man's barns. 

What was that object of interest shall be told 
in the next chapter. 



CHAPTER X. 

goarlt'3 kbvenge. 

The Senator and Morton followed close on 
the steps of Lord Rufford and Captain Glomax, 
and were thus able to make their way into the 
centre of the crowd. There, on a clean s^vard 
of grass, laid out as carefully as though he were 
a royal child prepared for burial, was — a dead 
fox. 

"It's pi'son, my lord ; it's pi'son, to a moral," 
said Bean, who, as keeper of the wood, was 
bound to vindicate himself, and his master, and 
the wood. "Feel of him, how stiff he is." A 
good many did feel, but Lord Rufford stood still 
and looked at the poor victim in silence. "It's 
easy knowing how he come by it," said Bean. 

The men around gazed into each other's faces 



with a sad, tragic air, as though the occasion 
were one which at the first blush was too melan- 
choly for many words. There was whispering 
here and there, and one young farmer's son gave 
a deep sigh, like a steam-engine beginning to 
work, and rubbed his eyes with the back of his 
hand. "There ain't nothin' too bad — nothin'," 
said another, leaving his audience to imagine 
whether he was alluding to the wretchedness of 
the world in general, or to the punishment which 
was due to the perpetrator of this nefarious act. 
The dreadful word " vulpecide " was heard from 
various lips, with an oath or two before it. "It 
makes me sick of my own land, to think it should 
be done so near," said Larry Twentyraan, who 
had just come up. Mr. Runciman declared that 
they must set their wits to work, not only to find 
the Criminal, but to prove the crime against him, 
and offered to subscribe a couple of sovereigns 
on the spot to a common fund to be raised for 
the purpose. 

" I don't know what is to be done with a coun- 
try like this," said Captain Glomax, who, as an 
itinerant, was not averse to cast a slur upon the 
land of his present sojourn. 

"I don't remember any thing like it on my 
property before," said the lord, standing up for 
his own estate and the county at large. 

"Nor in the hunt," said young Hampton. 
" Of course such a thing may happen anywhere. 
They had foxes poisoned in the Pytchley last 
year." 

"It shows a d — bad feeling somewhere, "said 
the master. 

' ' We know very well where the feeling is," 
said Bean, wlio had by this time taken up the 
fox, determined not to allow it to pass into any 
hands less careful than his own. 

"It's that scoundrel Goarly,"said one of the 
Botseys. Then there was an indignant murmur 
heard, first of all from two or three, and then 
running among the whole crowd. Every body 
knew as well as though he had seen it that Goar- 
ly had baited meat with strychnine and put it 
down in the wood. 

"Might liave pi'soned half the pack!" said 
Tony "Tuppett, who had come up on foot frara 
the barn where the hounds were still imprisoned, 
and had caught hold in an affectionate manner 
of a fore pad of the fox which Bean had clutch- 
ed by the two hind legs. Poor Tony Tuppett 
almost shed tears as he looked at the dead ani- 
mal, and thought what might have been the fate 
of the pack. "It's him, my lord, " he said, "as we 
run through Littleton Gorse Monday after Christ- 
mas last, and up to Impington Park where he got 
away from us in a hollow tree. He's four year 
old," added Tony, looking at the animal's mouth, 
"and there warn't a finer dog-fox in the county." 

"Do they know all the foxes?" asked the 
Senator. 

In answer to this Morton only shook his head, 
not feeling quite sure himself how far a hunts- 
man's acquaintance in that line might go, and 
being also too much impi'essed by the occasion 
for speculative conversation. 

" It's that scoundrel Goarly," had been repeat- 
ed again and again ; and then on a sudden Goar- 
ly himself was seen standing on the farther hedge 
of Larry's field, with a gun in his hand. He was 
not at this time above two hundred yards from 
them, and was declared by one of the young 



28 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



farmers to be grinning with delight. The next 
field was Goarly's, but the hedge and ditch be- 
longed to Twentyman. Larry rnshed forward as 
though determined to thrash the man, and two 
or three followed him. But Lord RutFord gal- 
loped on and stopped them. " Don't get into a 
row with a fellow like that," he said to Twenty- 
man. 

" He's on my land, my lord," said Larry, im- 
patiently. 

"I'm on my own now, and let me see who'll 
dare to touch me!" said Goarly, jumping down. 

"You've put poison down in that wood," said 
Larry. 

"No, I didn't; but I knows who did. It 
ain't I as am afeard for my young turkeys." 

Now, it was well known that old Mrs. Twenty- 
man, Larry's mother, was fond of young turkeys, 
and that her poultry-yard had suffered. Larry, 
in his determination to be a gentleman, had al- 
ways laughed at his mother's losses. But now 
to be accused in this way was ten-ible to his feel- 
ings! He made a rush as though to jump over 
the hedge, but Lord Rufford again ititercepted 
him. "I didn't think, Mr. Twentyman, that 
you'd care for what such a fellow as that might 
say." By this time Lord Rufford was off his 
horse, and had taken hold of Larry. 

" I'll tell you all what it is," screamed Goarly, 
standing just at the edge of his own field, " if a 
hound comes out of the wood on to my land, I'll 
shoot him. I don't know nothing about p'ison- 
ing, thougli I dare say Mr. Twentyman does. 
But if a hound comes on my land, I'll shoot 
him — open, before you all." 

There was, however, no danger of such a threat 
being executed on this day, as, of course, no 
hound would be allowed to go into Dillsborough 
Wood. 

Twentyman was reluctantly brought back into 
the meadow where the horses were standing, and 
then a consultation was held as to what they 
should do next. There were some who thought 
that the hounds should be taken home for the 
day. It was as though some special friend of 
the U. R. U. had died that morning, and that the 
spirits of the sportsmen were too dejected for 
their sport. Others, with prudent foresight, sug- 
gested that the hounds might run back from some 
distant covert to Dillsborough, and that there 
should be no hunting till the wood had been 
thoroughly searched. But the strangers, espe- 
cially those who had hired horses, would not hear 
of this, and after considerable delay it was ar- 
ranged that the hounds should be trotted off as 
quickly as possible to Impington Gorse, which 
was on the other side of Impington Park, and 
fully five miles distant. And so they started, 
leaving the dead fox in the hands of Bean, the 
gamekeeper. 

"Is this the sort of thing that occurs every 
day ?" asked the Senator, as he got back into the 
carriage. 

"I should fancy not," answered Morton. 
"Somebody has poisoned a fox, and I don't 
think that that is very often done about here." 

"Why did he poison him?" 

" To save his fowls, I suppose." 

"Why shouldn't he poison him, if the fox 
takes his fowls? Fowls are better than foxes." 

"Not in this country," said Morton. 

"Then I'm very glad I don't live here," said 



Mr. Gotobed. "These friends of yours are 
dressed very nicely, and look very well, but a fox 
is a nasty animal." "It was that man standing 
up on the bank, wasn't it ?" continued the Sena- 
tor, who was determined to understand it all to 
the very bottom, in reference to certain lectures 
which he intended to give on his return to the 
States, and perhaps also in the Old Country be- 
fore he left it. ^ 

"They suspect him." 

"That man with the gun ! One man against 
two hundred ! Now I respect that man — I do, 
with all my heart." 

" You'd better not say so here, Mr. Gotobed." 

"I know how full of prejudice you all air, but 
I do respect him. If I comprehend the matter 
rightly, he was on his own land when we saw 
him." 

"Yes; that was his own field." 

"And they meant to ride across it, whether 
he liked it or no ?" 

"Every body rides across every body's land, 
out hunting." 

"Would they ride across your park, Mr. Mor- 
ton, if you didn't let them ?" 

"Certainly they would, and break down all my 
gates if I had them locked, and pull down my 
park palings to let the hounds through." 

"And you could get no compensation ?" 

"Practically, none. And certainly I should 
not try. The greatest enemy to hunting in the 
whole county would not be foolish enough to 
make the attempt." 

"Why so?" 

" He would get no satisfaction, and every body 
would hate him." 

"Then I respect that man the more. What 
is that man's name?" Morton hadn't heard the 
name, or had forgotten it. "I shall find that 
man out and have some conversation with him, 
Mr. Morton. I respect that man, Mr. Morton. 
He's one against two hundred, and he insists 
upon his rights. Those men standing round and 
wiping their eyes, and stifled with grief because 
a fox had been poisoned, as though some great 
patriot had died among them in the service of 
his country, formed one of the most remarkable 
phenomena, sir, that ever I beheld in any coun- 
try. When I get among my own people in 
Mikewa and tell them that, they won't believe 
me, sir." 

In the mean time the cavalcade was hurrying 
away to Impington Gorse, and John Morton, 
feeling that he had not had an opportunity as 
yet of showing his American friend the best side 
of hunting, went with them. The five miles 
were five long miles ; and as the pace was not 
above seven miles an hour, nearly an hour was 
occupied. There was, therefore, plenty of oppor- 
tunity for the Senator to inquire whether the gen- 
tlemen around him were as yet enjoying their 
sport. There was an air of triumph about him 
as to the misfortunes of the day, joined to a bat- 
tery of continued raillery, which made it almost 
impossible for Morton to keep his temper. He 
asked whether it was not, at any rate, better than 
trotting a pair of horses backward and forward 
over the same mile of road for half the day, as is 
the custom in the States. But the Senator, 
though he did not quite approve of trotting- 
matches, argued that there was infinitely more 
of skill and ingenuity in the American pastime. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



29 



"Every body is so gloomy," said the Senator, 
lighting his third cigar. " I've been watching 
that young man in pink boots for the last half- 
hour, and he hasn't spoken a word to any one." 

"iperhaps he's a stranger," said Morton. 

"And that's the way you treat him!" 

It was past two when the hounds were put 
into the gorae, and certainly no one was in a very 
good humor. A trot of five miles is disagreea- 
ble, and two o'clock in November is late for find- 
ing a first fox ; and, then, poisoning is a vice that 
may grow into a habit! There was a general 
feeling that Goarly ought to be extinguished, but 
an idea that it might be difiicult to extinguish 
him. The whips, nevertheless, cantered on to 
the comer of the covert, and Tony put in his 
hounds with a cheery voice. The Senator re- 
marked that the gorse was a very little place — 
for, as they were on the side of a hill, they could 
not see it all. Lord Rufford, who was standing 
by the carriage, explained to him that it was a 
favorite resort of foxes, and diflScult to draw as 
being very close. 

"Perhaps they've poisoned him too," said the 
Senator. It was evident from his voice that, had 
such been the case, he would not have been among 
the mourners. 

"The blackguards are not yet thick enough 
in our country for that," said Lord Rufford, 
meaning to be sarcastic. 

Then a whimper was heard from a hound — at 
first very low, and then growing into a fuller 
sound. "There he is!" said young Hampton. 
" For Heaven's sake, get tliose fellows away from 
that side, Glomax!" This was uttered wicli so 
much vehemence that the Senator looked up in 
surprise. Then the captain galloped round the 
side of the covert, and, making use of some 
strong language, stopped the ardor of certain 
gentlemen who were in a huriy to get away on 
what they considered good terms. Lord Ruf- 
ford, Hampton, Larry "Twentyman, and others 
sat stock-still on their horses, watching the gorse. 
Fred Botsey urged himself a little forward down 
the hill, and was creeping on, when Captain Glo- 
max asked him whether he would be so • 

obliging kind as to remain where he was for half 
a minute. Fred took the observations in good 
part, and stopped his horse. 

"Does he do all that cursing and swearing 
for the two thousand pounds ?" asked the Sen- 
ator. 

The fox traversed the gorse back from side to 
side, and from corner to corner, again and again. 
There were two sides, certainly, at which he 
might break ; but though he came out more than 
once, he could not be got to go away. 

"They'll kill him now before he breaks," said 
the elder Botsey. 

"Brute!" exclaimed his brother. 

"They're hot on him now," said Hampton. 
At this time the whole side of the hill was ring- 
ing, with the music of the hounds. 

" He was out then, but Dick turned him," 
said Larry. Dick was one of the whips. 

"Will you be so kind, Mr. Morton," asked 
the Senator, "as to tell me whether they're 
hunting yet. They've been at it for three hours 
and a half, and I should like to know wjien they 
begin to amuse themselves. " 

Just as he had spoken, there came from Dick 
a cry that he was away. Tony, who had been 



down at the side of the gorse, at once jumped 
into it, knowing the passage through. Lord 
RuiFord, who for the last five or six minutes had 
sat perfectly still on his horse, started down the 
hill as though he had been thrown from a cata- 
pult. There was a little hand- gate through 
which it was expedient to pass, and in a minute 
a score of men were jostling for the way, among 
whom were the two Botseys, our friend Runci- 
man, and Larry Twentyman, with Kate Masters 
on the pony, close behind him. Young Hampton 
jumped a very nasty fence by the side of the 
wicket, and Lord Rufford followed him. A score 
of elderly men, with some young men among 
them too, turned back into a lane behind them, 
having watched long enough to see that they 
were to take the lane to the left and not the lane 
to the right. After all, there was time enough ; 
for when the men had got through the hand- 
gate the hounds were hardly fi-ee of the covert, 
and Tony, riding up the side of the hill opposite, 
was still blowing his horn. But they were off 
at last, and the bulk of the field got away on 
good terms with the hounds. "Now they are 
hunting," said Mr. Morton to the Senator. 

' ' They all seemed to be very angry with each 
other at that narrow gate." 

"They were in a hurry, I suppose." 

" Two of them jumped over the hedge. Why 
didn't they all jump? How long will it be now 
before they catch him ?" 

"Very probably they may not catch him at 
all." 

"Not catch him after all that! Then the 
man was certainly right to poison that other fox 
in the wood. How long will they go on ?" 

"Half an hour, perhaps." 

"And you call that hunting! Is it worth the 
while of all those men to expend all that energy 
for such a result! Upon the whole, Mr. Mor- 
ton, I should say that it is one of the most in- 
comprehensible things that I have ever seen in 
the course of a ratlier long and varied life. 
Shooting I can understand, for you have your 
pheasants. Fishing I can understand, as you 
have your fish. Here you get a fox, to begin 
with, and are all broken-hearted. Then you 
come across another, after riding about all day, 
and the chances are, yon can't catch him !" 

"I suppose," said Mr. Morton, angrily, "the 
habits of one country are incomprehensible to 
another. When I see Americans loafing about 
in the bar-room of a hotel, I am lost in amaze- 
ment." 

"There is not a man you see who couldn't 
give a reason for his being there. He has an ob- 
ject in view, though perhaps it may be no better 
than to rob his neighbor. But here there seems 
to be no possible motive." 



CHAPTER XL 

FROM IMPINGTON GOESE. 

The fox ran straight from the coverts through 
his well-known haunts to Impington Park, and, 
as the hounds were astray there for two or three 
minutes, there was a general idea that he, too, 
had got up into a tree, which would have amused 
the Senator very much had the Senator been 
there. But neither had the country nor the pace 



30 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



been adapted to wheels, and the Senator and the 
Paragon were now returning along the road to- 
ward Bragton. The fox had tried his old earths 
at Impington High Wood, and had then skulked 
back along the outside of the covert. Had not 
one of the whips seen him, he would have been 
troubled no further on that day — a fact which, 
if it could have been explained to the Senator in 
all its bearings, would greatly have added to his 
delight. But Dick viewed him ; and with many 
halloos.and much blowing of horns, and prayers 
from Captain Glomax that gentlemen would only 
be so good as to hold their tongues, and a fuU- 
tongued volley of abuse from half the field against 
an unfortunate gentleman who rode after the es- 
caping fox before a hound was out of the cov- 
ert, they settled again to their business. It was 
pretty to see the quiet ease and apparent non- 
chalance and almost aifected absence of bustle of 
those who knew their work, among whom were 
specially to be named young Hampton, and the 
elder Botsey, and Lord Ruftbrd, and, above all, 
a dark-visaged, long-whiskered, sombre, military 
man who had been in the carriage with Lord 
Ruiford, and who had hardly spoken a word to 
any one the whole day. This was the celebrated 
Major Caneback, known to all the world as one 
of the dullest men and best riders across countiy 
that England had ever produced. But he was 
not so dull but that he knew how to make use of 
his accomplishment, so as always to be able to 
get a mount on a friend's horses. If a man want- 
ed to make a horse, or to try a horse, or to sell a 
horse, or to buy a horse, he delighted to put Ma- 
jor Caneback up. The major was sympathetic, 
and made his friend's horses, and tried them, and 
sold them. Then he would take his two bottles 
of wine — of course from his friend's cellar — and 
when asked about the day's sport would be oracu- 
lar in two words, "Rather slow," "Quick spurt," 
" Goodish thing," " Regularly mulled," and such 
like. Nevertheless, it was a great thing to have 
Major Caneback with you. To the list of those 
who rode well and quietly must, in justice, be 
added our friend Larry Twentyman, who was in 
truth a good horseman. And he had three things 
to do, which it was difficult enough to combine. 
He had a young horse which he would have liked 
to sell ; he had to coach Kate Masters on his 
pony ; and he desired to ride like Major Cane- 
back. 

From Impington Park they went in a straight 
line to Littleton Gorse, skirting certain small 
woods which the fox disdained to enter. Here 
the pace was very good, and the country was all 
grass. It was the very cream of U. R. U. ; and 
could the Senator have read the feelings of the 
dozen leading men in the run, he would have 
owned that they were for the time satisfied with 
their amusement. Could he have read Kate 
Masters's feelings, he would have had to own 
that she was in an earthly paradise. When the 
pony paused at the big brook, brought his four 
legs steadily down on the brink as though he 
were going to bathe, then, with a bend of his 
back, leaped to the other side, dropping his hind 
legs in and instantly recovering them, and when 
she saw that Larry had waited just a moment for 
her, watching to see what might be her fate, she 
was in heaven. 

"Wasn't it a big one, Larry?" she asked, in 
her triumph. " He did go in behind !" 



" Those cats of things always do it somehow," 
Larry replied, darting forward again and keeping 
the major well in his eye. 

The brook had stopped one or two, and tidings 
came up that Ned Botsey had broken his horse's 
back. The knowledge of the brook had sent 
some round by the road — steady riding men 
such as Mr. Runciman and Dr. Nupper. Captain 
Glomax had got into it, and came up afterward 
wet through, with temper by no means improved. 
But the glory of the day had been the way in 
which Lord RufFord's young bay mare, who had 
never seen a brook before, had flown over it, with 
the major on her back, taking it, as Larry after- 
ward described, "just in her stride, without con- 
descending to look at it. I was just behind the 
major, and saw her do it. " 

Larry understood that a man should never talk 
of his own place in a ran, but he didn't quite un- 
derstand that neither should he talk of having 
been close to another man who was supposed to 
have had the best of it. Lord Rufibrd, who 
didn't talk much of these things, quite under- 
stood that he had received full value for his billet 
and mount, in the improved character of his 
mare. 

Then there was a little difficulty at the bound- 
ary fence of Impington Hall Farm. The major, 
who didn't know the ground, tried it at an im- 
practicable place, and brought his mare down. 
But she fell at the right side, and he was quick 
enough in getting away from her not to fall un- 
der her in the ditch. Tony Tuppett, who knew 
every foot of that double ditch and bank, arid 
every foot in the hedge above, kept well to the 
left, and crept through a spot where one ditch 
ran into the other, intersecting the fence. Tony, 
like a knowing huntsman as he was, rode always 
for the finish, and not for immediate glory. 
Both Lord Rufford and Hampton, who, in spite 
of their affected nonchalance, were in truth rather 
riding against one another, took it all in a fly, 
choosing a lighter spot than that which the major 
had encountered. Lariy had longed to follow 
them, or, rather, to take it along-side of them, 
but was mindful at last of Kate, and hurried 
down the ditch to the spot which Tony had 
chosen, and which was now crowded by horse- 
men. 

" He would have done it as well as the best of 
them," said Kate, panting for breath. 

" We're all right," said Larry. "Follow me. 
Don't let them hustle you out. Now, Mat, can't 
you make way for a lady half a minute ?" 

Mat growled, quite undei'standing the use 
which was being made of Kate Masters ; but he 
did give way, and was rewarded with a gracious 
smile. "Yon are going uncommon well. Miss 
Kate," said Mat, "and I won't stop you." 

" I am so much obliged to you, Mr. Ruggles," 
said Kate, not scrupling for a moment to take 
the advantage offered her. 

The fox had turned a little to the left, which 
was in Larry's favor, and tlie major was now 
close to him, covered on one side with mud, but 
still looking as though the mud were all right. 
There are some men who can crush their hats, 
have their boots and breeches full of water, and 
be covered with dirt from their faces downward, 
and yet look as if nothing were amiss, while with 
others the marks of a fall are always provocative 
either of pity or ridicule. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



31 



"I hope you're not hurt, Major Caneback," 
said Larry, glad of the occasion to speak to so 
distinguished an individual. 

The major grunted as he rode on, finding no 
necessity here even for his customary two words. 
Little accidents such as that were the price he 
paid for his day's entertainment. 

As they got within view of Littleton Gorse, 
Hampton, Lord RufFord, and Tony had the best 
of it, though two or three farmers were very 
close to them. At this moment Tony's mind 
was much disturbed, and he looked round more 
than once for Captain Glomax. Captain Glo- 
max had got into the brook, and had then rid- 
den down to the high-road which ran here near 
to them, and which, as he knew, ran within one 
field of the gorse. He had lost his place, and 
had got a ducking, and was a little out of humor 
with things in general. It had not been his pur- 
pose to go to Impington on this day, and he was 
still, in his mind, saying evil things of the U. R. U. 
respecting that poisoned fox. Perhaps he was 
thinking, as itinerant masters often must think, 
that it was very hard to have to bear so many un- 
pleasant things for a poor two thousand pounds a 
year, and meditating as he had done for the last 
two seasons, a threat that, unless the money were 
increased, he wouldn't hunt the country more 
than three times a week. As Tony got near to 
the gorse, and also near to the road, he managed 
with infinite skill to get the hounds off the scent, 
and to make a fictitious cast to the left, as though 
he thought the fox had traversed that way. Tony 
knew well enough that the fox was at that mo- 
ment in Littleton Gorse ; but he knew also that 
the gorse was only six acres, that such a fox as 
he had before him wouldn't stay there two min- 
utes after the first hound was in it, and that 
Dillsborough Wood — which to his imagination 
was full of poison — would then be only a mile 
and a half before him. Tony, whose fault was 
a tendency to mystery — as is the fault of most 
huntsmen — having accomplished his object in 
stopping the hounds, pretended to cast about 
with great diligence. He crossed the road, and 
was down one side of a field and along another, 
looking anxiously for the captain. 

" The fox has gone on to the gorse," said the 
elder Botsey; "what a stupid old pig he is! ' 
meaning that Tony Tuppett was the pig. 

"He was seen going on," said Larry, who had 
come across a man mending a drain. 

"It would be his run, of course," said Hamp- 
ton, who was generally up to Tony's wiles, but 
who was now as much in the dark as others. 
Then four or five rode up to the huntsman and 
told him that the fox had been seen heading for 
the gorse. Tony said not a word, but bit his 
lips and sci-atched his head, and bethought him- 
self what fools men might be, even though they 
did ride to hounds. One word of explanation 
would have settled it all, but he would not speak 
that word till he whispered it to Captain Glo- 
max. 

In the mean time there was a crowd in the 
road waiting to see the result of Tony's manoeu- 
vres. And then, as is usual on such occasions, 
a little mild repartee went about — what the 
sportsmen themselves would have called " chafi;" 
Fred Botsey came up, not having broken his 
horse's back, as had been rumored, but having 
had to drag the brute out of the brook with the 



help of two countrymen, and the major was ask- 
ed about his fall, till he was forced to open his 
mouth. " Double ditch ; mai'e fell; matter of 
course." And then he got himself out of the 
crowd, disgusted with the littleness of mankind. 
Lord Rufford had been riding a very big chest- 
nut horse, and had watched the anxious strug- 
gles of Kate Masters to hold her place. Kate, 
though fifteen, and quite up to that age in intel- 
ligence and impudence, was small, and looked al- 
most a child, * 

"That's a nice pony of yours, my dear," said 
the lord. 

Kate, who didn't quite like being called "my 
dear," but who knew that a lord has privileges, 
said that it was a very good pony. 

"Suppose we change," said his lordship. 
" Could you ride my horse?" 

" He's very big," said Kate. 

"You'd look like a tomtit on a hay-stack," 
said his lordship, 

"And if you got on my pony, you'd look like 
a hay-stack on a tomtit," said Kate, Then it 
was felt that Kate Masters had had the best of 
that little encounter. 

"Yes, I got one there," said Lord Rufford, 
while his friends were laughing at him. 

At length Captain Glomax was seen in the 
road, and Tony was with him at once, whisper- 
ing in his ear that the hounds, if allowed to go 
on, would certainly run into Dillsborough Wood, 

"D — n the hounds!" muttered the captain; 
but he knew too well what he was about to face 
so terrible a danger. " They're going home, " he 
said, as soon as he had joined Lord Rufford and 
the crowd. 

' ' Going home ! "exclaimed a pink-coated young 
rider of a hired horse which had been going well 
with him ; and, as he said so, he looked at his 
watch. 

"Unless you particularly wish me to take the 
hounds to some covert twenty miles off," answer- 
ed the sarcastic master. 

" The fox certainly went on to Littleton," said 
the elder Botsey. 

"My dear fellow," said the captain, "I can 
tell you where the fox went quite as well as you 
can tell me. Do allow a man to know what 
he's about sometimes." 

"It isn't generally the custom here to take the 
hounds off a running fox," continued Botsey, who 
subscribed fifty pounds, and did not like being 
snubbed. 

"And it isn't generally the custom ,to have 
fox-coverts poisoned," said the captain, assuming 
to himself the credit due to Tony's sagacity. 
"If you wish to be master of these hounds, I 
haven't the slightest objection ; but, while I'm 
responsible, you must allow me to do my work 
according to my own judgment." Then the 
thing was understood, and Captain Glomax was 
allowed to carry off the hounds and his ill-humor 
without another word. 

But just at that moment, while the hounds and 
the master, and Lord Rufford and his friends, 
were turning back in their own direction, John 
Morton came up with his carriage and the Sen- 
ator. 

" Is it all over ?" asked the Senator. 

"All over for to-day," said Lord Rufford, 

" Did you catch the animal?" 

"No, Mr, Gotobed; we couldn't catch him. 



32 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



To tell the truth, we didn't try ; but we had a 
nice little skuny for four or five miles." 

" Some of you look very wet." 

Captain Glomax and Fred Botsey were stand- 
ing near the carriage ; but the captain, as soon 
as he heard this, broke into a trot and followed 
the hounds. 

"Some of us are veiy wet," said Fred. 
"That's part of the fun." 

" Oh ; that's part of the fun. You found one 
fox dead, and yon didn't kill another because 
you didn't try. Well, Mr. Morton, I don't think 
I shall take to fox-hunting, even though they 
should introduce it in Mikewa. What's be- 
come of the rest of the men ?" 

"Most of them are in the brook," said Fred 
Botsey, as he rode on toward Dillsborough. 

Mr. Runciman was also there, and trotted on 
homeward ^^■ith Botsey, Larry, and Kate Mas- 
ters. " I think I've won my bet," said the ho- 
tel keeper. 

"I don't see that at all. We didn't find in 
Dillsborough Wood." 

"I say we did find in Dillsborough Wood. 
We found a fox, though, unfortunately, the poor 
brute was dead." 

"The bet's off", I should say. What do you 
say, Larry ?" 

Then Runciman ai'gued his case at great length 
and with much ability. It had been intended that 
the bet should be governed by the fact whether 
Dillsborough Wood did or did not contain a fox 
on that morning. He himself had backed the 
wood, and Botsey had been strong in his opin- 
ion against the wood. Which of them had been 
l)ractically right? Had not the presence of tlie 
poisoned fox shown that he was right? 

"I think you ought to pay," said Larry. 

"All right," said Botsey, riding on, and telling 
liimself that that was what came from making a 
bet with a m.an who was not a gentleman. 

" He's as unhappy about that hat," said Run- 
ciman, "as though beer had gone down a pen- 
ny a gallon." 



CHAPTER XIL 

ARABELLA TREFOIL. 

On the Sunday the party from Bragton went 
to the parish church, and found it very cold. 
The duty was done by a young curate who lived 
in Dillsborough, there being no house in Bragton 
for him. The rector himself had not been in the 
church for the last six months, being an invalid. 
At present he and his wife were away in London, 
but the vicarage was kept up for his use. The 
semce was certainly not alluring. It was a very 
wet morning, and the curate had lidden over 
from Dillsborough on a little pony which the 
rector kept for him in addition to the one hun- 
dred pounds per annum paid for his services. 
That he should have got over his service quickly 
was not a matter of surprise ; nor was it wonder- 
ful that there should have been no soul- stirring 
matter in his discourse, as he had two sermons to 
preach every week, and to perform single-handed 
all the other clerical duties of a parish lying four 
miles distant from his lodgings. Perhaps, had 
he expected the presence of so distinguished a 
critic as the Senator from Mikewa, he might 
have done better. As it was, being nearly wet 



congrega- 



through and muddy up to his knees, he did not 
do the work veiy well. When Morton and his 
fiiends left the church, and got into the carriage 
for their half- mile drive home across the park, 
Mrs. Morton was the first to speak. "John," 
she said, "that church is enough to give any 
woman her death. I won't go there any more. " 

" They don't understand warming a church in 
the country," said John, apologetically. 

"Is it not a little too large for the ( 
tion ?" asked the Senator. 

The chui-ch was large and straggling and ill- 
arranged, and on this particular Sunday had 
been almost empty. There was in it a harmo- 
nium which Mrs. Puttock played when she was 
at home, but, in her absence, the attempt made 
by a few rustics to sing the hymns had not been 
a musical success. The whole aff"air had been 
very sad ; and so the Paragon had felt it, who 
knew — and was remembering through the whole 
service — how these things are done in transat- 
lantic cities. 

"The weather kept the people away, I sup- 
pose," said Morton. 

"Does that gentleman generally draw large 
congregations ?" asked the persistent Senator. 

"We don't go in for drawing congregations 
here." Under the cross-examination of his 
guest, the Secretary of Legation almost lost his 
diplomatic good temper. "We have a church 
in every parish for those who choose to attend 
it." 

"And very few do choose," said the Senator. 
"I can't say that they're wrong." There seem- 
ed at the moment to be no necessity to carry the 
disagreeable conversation any further, as they 
had now reached tiie house. Mrs. Morton im- 
mediately went upstairs, and the two gentlemen 
took themselves to the fire in the so-called libra- 
ry, which room was being used, as more com- 
modious than the big drawing-room. Mr. Go- 
tobed placed himself on the rug with his back 
to the fire, and immediately reverted to the 
church. "That gentleman is paid by tithes, I 
suppose." 

"He's not the rector. He's a curate." 

"Ah! just so. He looked like a curate. 
Doesn't the rector do any thing ?" 

Then Morton, who was by this time heartily sick 
of explaining, explained the unfortunate state of 
Mr. Puttock's health, and the conversation was 
carried on till gradually the Senator learned that 
Mr. Puttock received eight hundred pounds a 
year and a house for doing nothing, and that he 
paid his deputy one hundred pounds a year, with 
the use of a pony. 

"And how long will that be allowed to go on, 
Mr. Morton ?" asked the Senator. 

To all these inquiries Morton found himself 
compelled not only to answer, but to answer the 
truth. Any prevarication or attempt at mystifi- 
cation fell to the ground at once under the Sena- 
tor's tremendous powers of inquiry. It had been 
going on for four years, and would probably go 
on now till Mr. Puttock died. 

"A man of his age with the asthma may live 
for twenty years, " said the Senator, who had al- 
ready learned that Mr. Puttock was only fifty. 
Then he ascertained that Mr. Puttock had not 
been presented to, or selected for, the living on 
account of any peculiar fitness, but that he had 
been a fellow of Ruffbrd at Oxford till he was 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



33 



forty-five, when he had thought it well to mar- 
ry and take a living. " But he must have been 
asthmatic then ?" said the Senator. 

"He may have had all the ailments endured 
by the human race, for any thing I know," said 
the unhappy host. 

"And for any thing the bishop cared, as far 
as I can see," said the Senator. "Well, now, 
I guess that couldn't occur in our country. A 
minister may turn out badly with us as well as 
with you. But we don't appoint a man without 
inquiry as to his fitness, and if a man can't do 
his duty, he has to give way to some one who 
can. If the sick gentleman took the small por- 
tion of the stipend and tlie working-man the 
larger, would not better justice be done, and the 
people better served ?" 

"Mr. Puttock has a freehold in the parish." 

"A freehold possession of men's souls! The 
fact is, Mr. Morton, that the spirit of conserva- 
tism in this country is so strong that you can not 
bear to part with a shred of the barbarism of the 
Middle Ages. And when a rag is sent to the 
winds, you shriek with agony at the disruption, 
and think that the wound will be mortal." As 
Mr. Gotobed said this, he extended his right 
hand and laid his left on his breast as though he 
were addressing the Senate from his own chair. 
Morton, who had offered to entertain the gentle- 
man for ten days, sincerely wished that he were 
doing so. 

On the Monday afternoon the Trefoils arrived. 
Mr. Morton, with his mother and both the car- 
riages, went down to receive them, with a cart 
also for the luggage, which was fortunate, as 
Arabella Trefoil's big box was very big indeed, 
and Lady Augustus, though she was economical 
in most things, had brought a comfortable amount 
of clothes. Each of them had her own lady's 
maid, so that the two carriages were necessary. 
How it was that these ladies lived so luxuriously 
was a mystery to their friends, as for some time 
past they had enjoyed no particular income of 
their own. Lord Augustus had spent every 
thing that came to his hand, and the family own- 
ed no house at all. Nevertheless, Arabella Tre- 
foil was to be seen at all parties magnificently 
dressed, and never stirred anywhere without her 
own maid. It would have been as grievous to 
her to be called on to live without food as to go 
without this necessaiy appendage. She was a 
big, fair girl, whose copious hair was managed 
after such a fashion that no one could guess what 
was her own and what was purchased. She 
certainly had fine eyes, though I could never im- 
agine how any one could look at them and think 
it possible that she should be in love. They were 
very large, beautifully blue, but never bright; 
and the eyebrows over them were perfect. Her 
cheeks were somewhat too long, and the dis- 
tance from her well-formed nose to her upper lip 
too great. Her mouth was small, and her teeth 
excellent. But the charm of which men spoke 
the most was the brilliance of her complexion. 
If, as the ladies said, it was all paint, she, or her 
maid, must have been a great artist. It never be- 
trayed itself to be paint. But the beauty on which 
she prided herself was the grace of her motion. 
Though she was tall and big, she never allowed 
an awkward movement to escape from her. She 
certainly did it very well. No young woman 
could walk across an archery-ground with a finer 
3 



step, or manage a train with more perfect ease, 
or sit upon her horse with a more complete look 
of being at home there. No doubt she was slow, 
but, though slow, she never seemed to drag. 
Now she was, after a certain fashion, engaged to 
marry John Morton, and perhaps she was one 
of the most unhappy young persons in England. 

She had long known that it was her duty to 
marry, and especially her duty to marry well. 
Between her and her mother there had been no 
reticence on this subject. With worldly people 
in general, though the worldliness is manifest 
enough, and is taught by plain lessons from par- 
ents to their children, yet there is generally some 
thin veil even among themselves, some transpar- 
ent tissue of lies, which, though they never quite 
hope to deceive each other, does produce among 
them something of the comfort of deceit. But 
between Lady Augustus and her daughter there 
had for many years been nothing of the kind. 
The daughter herself had been too honest for it. 
"As for caring about him, mamma," she had 
once said, speaking of a suitor, ' ' of course I don't. 
He is nasty, and odious in every way. But I 
have got to do the best I can, and what is the 
use of talking about such trash as that ?" Then 
there had been no more trash between them. 

It was not John Morton whom Arabella Tre- 
foil had called nasty and odious. ' She had had 
many lovers, and had been engaged to not a few, 
and perhaps she liked John Morton as well as 
any of them — except one. He was quiet, and 
looked like a gentleman, and was reputed for no 
vices. Nor did she quarrel with her fate in that 
he himself was not addicted to any pleasures. 
She herself did not care much for pleasure. But 
she did care to be a great lady — one who would 
be allowed to swim out of rooms before others, 
one who could snub others, one who could show 
real diamonds when others wore paste, one who 
might be sure to be asked everywhere, even by 
the people who hated her. She rather liked be- 
ing hated by women, and did not want any man 
to be in love with her, except so far as might be 
suflicient for the purpose of marriage. The real 
diamonds and the high rank would not be hers 
Avith John Morton. She would have to be con- 
tent with such rank as is accorded to ministers 
at the courts at which they are employed. The 
fall would be great from what she had once ex- 
pected, and therefore she was miserable. Therq 
had been a young man of immense wealth, of 
great rank, whom at one time she really had fan- 
cied that she had loved ; but just as she was 
landing her prey, the prey had been rescued from 
her by powerful friends, and she had been all but 
broken-hearted. Mr. Morton's fortune was, in 
her eyes small, and she Avas beginning to learn 
that he knew how to take care of his own money. 
Ah'eady there had been difficulties as to settle- 
ments, difficulties as to pin-money, difficulties as 
to residence, Lady Augustus having been very ur- 
gent. John Morton, who had really been cap- 
tivated by the beauty of Arabella, was quite in 
earnest ; but there were subjects on which he 
would not give way. He was anxious to put his 
best leg foremost, so that the beauty might be 
satisfied, and might become his own ; but there 
was a limit beyond which he would not go. 
Lady Augustus had more than once said to her 
daughter that it would not do ; and then there 
would be all the weary work to do again ! 



3i 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



Nobody seeing the meeting on the platform 
would liave imagined that Mr. Morton and Miss 
Trefoil were lovers ; and as for Lady Augustus, 
it would have been thought that she was in some 
special degree offended with the gentleman who 
had come to meet her. She just gave him the 
tip of her fingers, and then turned away to her 
maid and called for the porters, and made her- 
self particular and disagreeable. Arabella vouch- 
safed a cold smile, but, then, her smiles were al- 
ways cold. After that, she stood still and shiv- 
ered. 

"Are you cold?'' asked Morton, She shook 
her head and shivered again. 

"Perhaps you are tired?" Then she nodded 
her head. 

When her maid came to her in some trouble 
about the luggage, she begged that she might not 
be "bothered;" saying that no doubt her moth- 
er knew all about it. 

" Can I do any thing?" asked Morton. 

"Nothing at all, I should think," said Miss 
Trefoil. 

In the mean time old Mrs. Morton was stand- 
ing by as black as thunder, for the Trefoil ladies 
had hardly noticed her. 

The luggage turned up all right at last — as 
luggage always does, and was stowed away in 
the cart. Then came the carriage arrangement. 
Morton had intended that the two elder ladies 
should go together with one of the maids, and 
that he should put his love into the other, which, 
having a seat behind, could accommodate the sec- 
ond girl without disturbing them in the carriage. 
But Lady Augustus had made some exception 
to this, and had begged that her daughter might 
be seated with herself. It was a point which 
Morton could not contest out there among the 
porters and drivers, so that at last he and his 
grandmother had the phaeton, together with the 
two maids in the rumble. 

"I never saw such manners in all my life," 
said the Honorable Mrs. Morton, almost burst- 
ing with passion. 

"They are cold and tired, ma'am." 

"No lady should be' too cold or too tired to 
conduct herself with propriety. No real lady is 
ever so." 

" The place is strange to them, you know." 

"I hope with all my heart that it may never 
be otherwise than strange to them." 

When they arrived at the house, the strangers 
were carried into the library, and tea was of 
course brought to them. The American Sena- 
tor was there, but the greetings were very cold. 
Mrs. Morton took her place and offered her hos- 
pitality in the most frigid manner. There had 
not been the smallest spark of love's flame shown 
as yet, nor did the girl, as she sat sipping her 
tea, seem to think that any such spark was want- 
ed. Morton did get a seat beside her, and man- 
aged to take away her muff and one of her 
sliawls, but she gave them to him almost as she 
might have done to a servant. She smiled in- 
deed, but she smiled as some women smile at 
every body who has any intercourse with them. 

"I think perhaps Mrs. Morton will let us go 
upstairs," said Lady Augustus. 

Mi-s. Morton immediately rang the bell, and 
prepared to precede the ladies to their chambers. 
Let them be as insolent as they would, she would 
jlo what she conceived to be her dutv. Then 



Lady Augustus stalked out of the room, and her 
daughter swum after her. 

" They don't seem to be quite the same as 
they were in Washington," said the Senator. 

John Morton got up and left the room with- 
out making any reply. He was thoroughly un- 
happy. 'What was he to do for a week with such 
a houseful of people? And then, what was he 
to do for all his life, if the presiding spirit of the 
house was to be such a one as this ? She was 
very beautiful, certainly. So he told himself; 
and yet, as he walked round the park, he almost 
repented of what he had done. But after twen- 
ty minutes' fast walking he was able to convince 
himself that all the fault on this occasion lay with 
the mother. Lady Augustus had been fatigued 
with her journey, and had therefore made every 
body near her miserable. 



CHAPTER XIIL 



AT BEAGTON. 



When the ladies went upstairs, the afternoon 
was not half over, and they did not dine till past 
seven. As Morton returned to the house in the 
dusk, he thought that perhaps Arabella might 
make some attempt to throw herself in his way. 
She had often done so when they were not en- 
gaged, and surely she might do so now. There 
was nothing to prevent her coming down to the 
library when she had got rid of her traveling 
clothes, and in this hope he looked into the I'oom. 
As soon as the door was open, the Senator, who 
in his mind was preparing his lecture, at once 
asked whether no one in England had an ap- 
paratus for warming rooms such as was to be 
found in every well-built house in the States. 
The Paragon hardly vouchsafed him a word of 
reply, but escaped upstairs, trusting that he 
might meet Miss Trefoil on the way. He was a 
bold man, and even ventured to knock at her 
door ; but there was no reply, and, fearing the 
Senator, he had to betake himself to his own 
privacy. Miss Trefoil had migrated to her 
mother's room, and there, over the fire, was 
holding a little domestic conversation. 

"I never saw such a barrack in my life, "said 
Lady Augustus. 

" Of course, mamma, we knew that we should 
find the house such as it was left a hundred years 
ago. He told us that himself " 

" He should have put something in it, to make 
it, at any rate, decent before we came in." 

" What's the use, if he's to live always at for- 
eign courts ?" 

"He intends to come home sometimes, I sup- 
pose; and, if he didn't, you would." Lady Au- 
gustus was not going to let her daughter marry 
a man wlio could not give her a home for, at 
any rate, a part of the j-ear. "Of course he 
must furnish the place, and have an immense 
deal done, before he can marry. I think it is a 
piece of impudence to bring one to such a place 
as this." 

"That's nonsense, mamma, because he told 
us all about it." 

" The more I see of it all, Arabella, the more 
sure I am that it won't do." 

" It must do, mamma." 

"Twelve hundred a year is all that he offers, 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



35 



and his lawj-er says that he will make no stipula- 
tion whatever as to an allowance." 

"Really, mamma, you might leave that to 
me." 

"I like to have every thing fixed, my deai-, 
and certain." 

"Nothing really ever is certain. While there 
is any thing to get, you may be sure that I shall 
have my share. As fer as money goes, I'm not 
a bit afraid of having the worst of it ; only there 
will be so very little between us." 

"That's just it." 

"There's no doubt about the property, mam- 
ma." 

"A nasty, beggarly place !" 

"And, from what every body says, he's sure 
to be a minister or embassador, or something of 
that sort." 

"I've no doubt he will. And where'll he 
have to go to ? To Brazil, or the West Indies, 
or some British tolony," said her ladyship, show- 
ing her ignorance of the Foreign Office service. 
"That might be very well. You could stay at 
home. Only where would you live ? He wouldn't 
keep a house in town for you. Is this the sort 
of place you'd like ?" 

" I don't think it makes any difference where 
one is, " said Arabella, disgusted. 

"But I do — a very great difference. It seems 
to me that he's altogether under tlie control of 
that hideous old termagant. Arabella, I think 
you'd better make up your mind that it won't 
do." 

"It must do," said Arabella.. 

" You're very fond of him, it seems." 

"Mamma, how you do delight to torture me ; 
as if my life weren't bad enough without your 
making it worse." 

"I tell you, my dear, what I'm bound to tell 
you — as your mother. I have my duty to do, 
whether it's painful or not." 

"That's nonsense, mamma; you know it is. 
That might have been all very well ten years 
ago." 

"You were almost in your cradle, my dear." 

"Pshaw! cradle! I'll tell you what it is, 
mamma. I've been at it till I'm nearly broken 
down. I must settle somewhere, or else die, or 
else run away. I can't stand this any longer, 
and I won't. Talk of work — men's work ! What 
man ever has to work as I do ?" I wonder which 
was the hardest part of that work, the hair-dress- 
ing and painting and companionship of the lady's 
maid, or the continual smiling upon unmarried 
men, to whom she had nothing to say, and for 
whom she did not in the least care! "I can't 
do it any more, and I won't. As for Mr. Mor- 
ton, I don't care that for him. You know I 
don't. I never cared much for any body, and 
shall never again care at all." 

" You'll find that will come all right after you 
are married." 

" Like you and papa," I suppose. 

"My dear, I had no mother to take care of 
me, or I shouldn't have married j-our father." 

"I wish you hadn't, because then I shouldn't 
be going to marry Mr. Morton. But, as I have 
got so far, for Heaven's sake let it go on. If you 
break with him I'll tell him every thing, and 
throw myself into his hands." Lady Augustus 
sighed deeply. " I will, mamma. It was you 
spotted this man ; and when you said that you 



thought it would do, I gave way. He was the 
last man in the world I should have thought of 
myself." 

" We had heard so muclx about Bragton !" 

"And Bragton is here. The estate is not out 
of elbows." 

"My dear, my opinion is that we've made a 
mistake. He's not the sort of man I took him 
to be. He's as hard as a file." 

"Leave that to me, mamma." 

"You are determined, then?" 

"I think I am. At any rate, let me look 
about me. Don't give him an opportunity of 
breaking off till I have made tip my mind. I 
can always break off, if I like it. No one in 
London has heard of the engagement yet. Just 
leave me alone for this week, to see what I think 
about it." Then Lady Augustus threw herself 
back in her chair and went to sleep, or pretend- 
ed to do so. 

A little after half- past seven she and her 
daughter, dressed for dinner, went down to the 
library together. The other guests were assem- 
bled there, and Mrs. Morton was already plainly 
expressing her anger at the tardiness of her son's 
guests. The Senator liad got hold of Mr. Main- 
waring, and was asking pressing questions as to 
Church patronage — a subject not very agreeable 
to the rector of St. John's, as his living had been 
bought for him with his wife's money during the 
incumbency of an old gentleman of seventy-eight. 
Mr. Cooper, who was himself nearly that age, 
and who was vicar of Mallingham, a parish 
which ran into Dillsborough, and comprehended 
a part of its population, was listening to these 
queries with awe — and perhaps with some little 
gratification, as he had been presented to his liv- 
ing by the bishop after a curacy of many years. 
"These kind of things, I believe, can be bought 
and sold in the market," said the Senator, speak- 
ing every word with absolute distinctness. But 
as he paused for an answer the two ladies came 
in, and the conversation was changed. Both the 
clergymen were introduced to Lady Augustus 
and her daughter, and Mr. Mainwaring at once 
took refuge under the shadow of the ladies' title. 

Arabella did not sit down, so that Morton had 
an opportunity of standing near to his love. " I 
suppose you are very tired," he said. . 

"Not in the least." She smiled her sweetest 
as she answered him, but yet it was not very 
sweet. "Of course we were tired and cross 
when we got out of the train. People always 
are ; aren't they ?" 

" Perhaps ladies are." 

" We were. But all that about the carriages, 
Mr. Morton, wasn't my doing. Mamma had 
been talking to me so much that I didn't know 
whether I was on my head or my heels. It was 
Very good of you to come and meet us, and I 
ought to have been more gracious." In this way 
she made her peace; and as she was quite in 
earnest — doing a portion of the hard work of her 
life — she continued to smile as sweetl}' as she 
could. Perhaps he liked it ; but any man en- 
dowed with that power of appreciation which we 
call sympathy would have felt it to be as cold 
as though it had come from a figure on a glass 
window. 

The dinner was announced. Mr. Morton was 
honored with the hand of Lady Augustus. The 
Senator handed the old lady into the dining- 



36 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



room, and Mr. Mainwaring the younger lady, so 
that Arabella was sitting next to her lover. It 
had all been planned by Morton, and acceded to 
by his grandmother. Mr. Gotobed throughout 
the dinner had the best of the conversation, 
though Lady Augustus had power enough to 
snub him on more than one occasion. " Sup- 
pose we wei'e to allow at once," she said, "that 
every thing is better in the United States than 
anywhere else, shouldn't we get along easier?" 

"I don't know that getting along easjMS what 
we have particularly got in view," said Mr. Go- 
tobed, Avho was certainly in quest of information. 

"But it is what I have in view, Mr. Gotobed ; 
so, if you please, we'll take the pre-eminence of 
your country for granted." Then she turned to 
Mr. Mainwaring on the other side. Upon this 
the Senator addressed himself for a while to the 
table at large, and had soon forgotten altogether 
the expression of the lady's wishes. 

"I believe you have a good many churches 
about here," said Lady Augustus, trying to make 
conversation to her neighbor. 

"One in every parish, I fancy," 'said Mr. 
Mainwaring, who preferred all subjects to cler- 
ical subjects. "I suppose London is quite empty 
now." 

" We came direct from the duke's," said Lady 
Augustus, " and did not even sleep in town ; but 
it is empty. " The duke was the brother of Lord 
Augustus, and a compromise had been made with 
Lady Augustus, by which she and her daughter 
should be allowed a fortnight every year at the 
duke's place in the country, and a certain amount 
of entertainment in town. 

" I remember the duke at Christchurch," said 
the parson. '.'He and I were of the same par. 
He was Lord Mistletoe then. Dear me, that 
was a long time ago ! I wonder whether he re- 
members being upset out of a trap with me one 
day after dinner. I suppose we had dined in 
earnest. He has gone his way, and I have gone 
mine, and I've never seen him since. Pray re- 
member me to him." Lady Augustus said she 
would, and did entertain some little increased 
respect for the clergyman who could boast that 
he had been tipsy in company with her worthy 
bi-other-in-law. 

Poor Mr. Cooper did not get on very well with 
Mrs. Morton. All his remembrances of the old 
squire were eulogistic and affectionate. Hers 
were just the reverse. He had a good word to 
say for Reginald Morton, to which she would not 
even listen. She was willing enough to ask 
questions about the Maliingham tenants ; but 
Mr. Cooper would revert back to the old days, 
and so conversation was at an end. 

Morton tried to make himself agreeable to his 
left-hand neighbor — trying also very hard to 
make himself believe that he was happy in his 
immediate position. How often, in the various 
amusements of the world, is one tempted to pause 
a moment and ask one's self whether one really 
likes it ! He was conscious that he was working 
hard, struggling to be happy, painfully anxious 
to be sure that he was enjoying the luxury of be- 
ing in love. But he was not at all contented. 
There she was, and very beautiful she looked ; 
and he thought that he could be proud of her if 
she sat at the end of his table ; and he knew tliat 
she was engaged to be his wife. But he doubt- 
ed whether she was in love with him ; and he al- 



most doubted sometimes whether he was veiy 
much in love with her. He asked her in so 
many words what he should do to amuse her. 
Would she like to ride Avith him, as, if so, he 
would endeavor to get saddle-horses. Would 
she like to go out hunting ? Would she be taken 
round to see the neighboring towns, RufFord and 
Norrington? "Lord Rufford lives somewhere 
near Rufford?" she asked. Yes; he lived at 
Rufford Hall, three or four miles from the town. 
Did Lord Rufford hunt ? Morton believed that 
he was greatly given to hunting. Then he asked 
Arabella whether she knew the young lord. She 
had just met him, she said, and had only asked 
the question because of the name. "He is one 
of my neighbors down here, " said Morton ; ' ' but 
being always away, of course I see nothing of 
him." After that Arabella consented to be 
taken out on horseback to see a meet of the 
hounds, although she could not hunt. ' ' We 
must see what we can do about horses," he said. 
She, however, professed her readiness to go in the 
carriage if a saddle-horse could not be found. 

The dinner party, I fear, was very dull. Mr. 
Mainwaring perhaps liked it, because he was 
fond of dining anywhere away from home. Mr. 
Cooper was glad once more to see his late old 
friend's old dining-room. Mr. Gotobed perhaps 
obtained some information. But otherwise the 
affair was dull. 

"Are we to have a week of this?" said Ludy 
Augustus when she found herself upstairs. 

"You must, mamma, if we are to stay till we 
go to the Gores. Lord Rufford is here in the 
neighborhood." 

" But they don't know each other." 

"Yes they do — slightly. I am to go to the 
meet some day, and he'll be there." 

"It might be dangerous." 

"Nonsense, mamma! And after all you've 
been saying about dropping Mr. Morton ! " 

"But there is nothing so bad as a useless flir- 
tation." 

"Do I ever flirt? Oh, mamma, that after so 
many years you shouldn't know me ! Did you 
ever see me yet making myself happy in any 
way? What nonsense you talk!" Then, with- 
out waiting for or making any apology, she walk- 
ed off' to her own room. 



CHAPTER XIV. 

THE DILLSBOKOUGH FEUD, 

"It's that nasty, beastly, drunken club," said 
Mrs. Masters to her unfortunate husband on the 
Wednesday morning. It may perhaps be re- 
membered that the poisoned fox was found on 
the Saturday, and it may be imagined that Mr. 
Goarly had risen in importance since that day. 
On the Saturday, Bean, with a couple of men 
employed by Lord Rufford, had searched the 
wood, and found four or five red herrings poison- 
ed with strychnine. These had been, no doubt, 
about the magnitude of the offense. On the Mon- 
day a detective policeman, dressed, of course, in 
rustic disguise, but not the less known to every 
one in the place, was wandering about between 
Dillsborough and Dillsborough Wood, and mak- 
ing futile inquiries as to the purchase of strych- 
nine, and also as to the purchase of red herrings. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



37 



But every one knew, and such leading people as 
Runciman and Dr. Nupper were not slow to de- 
clare, that Dillsboro9gh was the only place in 
England in which one might be sure that those 
articles had not been purchased. And on the 
Tuesday it began to be understood that Goarly 
had applied to Bearside, the other attorney, in 
reference to his claim against Lord Ruttbrd's 
pheasants. He had contemptuously refused the 
seven shillings and sixpence an acre offered him, 
and put his demand at forty shillings. As to the 
poisoned fox and the herrings and the strych- 
nine, Goarly declared that he didn't care if there 
were twenty detectives in the place. He stated 
it to be his opinion that Larry Twentyman had 
put down the poison. It was all very well, 
Goarly said, for Larry to be fond of gentlemen, 
and to ride to hounds, and make pretenses ; but 
Larry liked his turkeys as well as any body else, 
and Larry had put down the poison. In this 
matter Goarly overreached himself. No one in 
Dillsborough could be brought to believe that. 
Even Harry Stubbings was ready to swear that 
he should suspect himself as soon. But nothing 
was clearer than this, tliat Goarly was going to 
make a stand against the hunt, and especially 
against Lord Rufford. He had gone to Bear- 
side, and Bearside had taken up the matter in a 
serious way. Then it became known very quick- 
ly that Bearside had already received money, 
and it Avas surmised that Goarly had some one 
at his back. Lord RufFord had lately ejected 
from a house of his on the other side of the 
county a discontented, litigious, retired grocer 
from Rufford, who had made some money, and 
had set himself up in a pretty little residence, 
with a few acres of land. The man had made 
himself objectionable, and had been dispossessed. 
The man's name was Scrobby, and hence had 
come these sorrows. This was the story that had 
already made itself known in Dillsborough on the 
Tuesday evening. But up to that time not a tit- 
tle of evidence had come to light as to the pui'- 
chase of the red herrings or the strychnine. All 
that was known was the fact that, had not Tony 
Tuppett stopped the hounds before they reached 
the wood, there must have been a terrible mor- 
tality. 

"It's that nasty, beastly, drunken club," said 
Mrs. Masters to her husband. Of course it was 
at this time known to the lady that her husband 
had thrown away Goarly's business, and that it 
had been transferred to Bearside. It was also 
surmised by her, as it was by the town in gen- 
eral, that Goarly's business would come to con- 
siderable dimensions ; just the sort of case as 
would have been sure to bring popularity if car- 
ried through, as Nickem, the senior clerk, would 
have carried it. And as soon as Scrobby's name 
was heard by Mrs. Masters, there was no end to 
the money in the lady's imagination to which 
this very case might not have amounted. 

'^ The club had nothing to do with it, my dear." 

' 'What time did you come home on Saturday 
night — or Sunday morning, I mean? Do you 
mean to tell me you didn't settle it there ?" 

"There was no nastiness, and no beastliness, 
and no drunkenness about it. I told you before 
I went that I wouldn't take it." 

"No, you didn't. How on earth are you to 
go on, if you chuck the children's bread out of 
their mouths in that way?" 



"You won't bcHeve me. Do you ask Twen- 
tyman what sort of a man Goarly is, " The at- 
torney knew that Larry was in great favor with 
his wife as being the favored suitor for Mary's 
hand, and had thought that this argument would 
be very strong. 

"I don't want Mr. Twentyman to teach me 
what is proper for my family, nor yet to teach 
you your business. Mr. Twentyman has his 
own way of living. He brought home Kate the 
other day with hardly a rag of her sister's habit 
left. She don't go out hunting any more." 

"Very well, my dear." 

"Indeed, for the matter of that, I don't see 
how any of them are to do any thing. What '11 
Lord Rufford do for you ?" 

" I don't want Lord Rufford to do any thing 
for me." The attorney was beginning to have 
his spirit stirred within him. 

" You don't want any body to do any thing, 
and yet you will do nothing yourself, just be- 
cause a set of drinking fellows in a tap -room, 
which you call a club — " 

"It isn't a tap-room." 

"It's worse, because nobody can see what 
you're doing. I know how it was. You hadn't 
the pluck to hold to your own when Runciman 
told you not." There was a spice of truth in this 
which made it all the more bitter. "Runciman 
knows on which side his bread is buttered. He 
can make his money out of these swearing, tear- 
ing fellows. He can send in his bills, and get 
them paid too. And it's all very well for Larry 
Twentyman to be bobbing and nobbing with the 
likes of them Botseys. But for a father of a 
ftimily like you to be put off his business by what ■ 
Mr. Runciman says, is a shame." 

"I shall manage my business as I think fit," 
said the attorney. 

"And when we're all in the poor-house, what'll 
you do then ?" said Mrs. Masters, with her hand- 
kerchief out at the spur of the moment. When- 
ever she roused her husband to a state of belli- 
cose ire by her taunts, she could always reduce 
him again by her tears. Being well aware of 
this, he would bear the taunts as long as he could, 
knowing that the tears would be still worse. He 
was so soft-hearted that, when she affected to be 
miserable, he could not maintain the sternness 
of his demeanor and leave her in her misery. 
"When every thing has gone away from us, 
what are we to do ? My little bit of money has 
disappeared ever so long." Then she sat herself 
down in her chair and had a great ciy. It was 
useless for him to remind her that hitherto she 
had never wanted any thing for herself or her 
children. She was resolved that every thing was 
going to the dogs because Goarly's case had been 
refused. ' ' And what Avill all those sporting-men 
do for you?" she repeated. "I hate the very 
name of a gentleman ; so I do. I wish Goarly 
had killed all the foxes in the county. Nasty 
vermin ! What good are the likes of them ?" 

Nickem, the senior clerk, was at first made al- 
most as unhappy as Mrs. Masfers by the weak de- 
cision to which his employer had come, and had, 
in the first flush of his anger, resolved to leave 
the ofiice. He was sure that the case was one 
which would just have suited him. He would 
have got up the evidence as to the fertility of the 
land, the enormous promise of crop, and the ul- 
timate absolute barrenness, to a marvel. He 



38 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



would have proved clouds of pheasants. And 
then Goarly's humble position, futile industiy, 
and general poverty might have been contrasted 
beautifully with Lord Kufford's wealth, idleness, 
and devotion to sport. Any thing above the 
seven shillings and sixpence an acre obtained 
against the lord would have been a triumph ; 
and he thought that if the thing had been well 
managed, they might probably have got fifteen 
shillings : and then, in such a case. Lord Ruf- 
ford could hardly have taxed the costs. It was 
really suicide for an attorney to tlirow away busi- 
ness so excellent as this. And now it had gone 
to Bearside, whom Nickem remembered as a 
junior to himself when they were both young 
hobbledehoys at Norrington — a dirty, blear-eyed, 
pimply-faced boy, who was suspected of purloin- 
ing half-pence out of coat-pockets. The thing 
was very trying to Nat Nickem. But suddenly, 
before that Wednesday was over, another idea 
had occurred to him, and he was almost content. 
He knew Goarly, and he had heard of Scrobby, 
and Scrobby's history in regard to the tenement 
at RufFord. As he could not get Goarly's case, 
why should he not make something of the case 
against Goarly? That detective was merely 
eking out his time, and having an idle week 
among the public-houses. If he could set him- 
self up as an amateur detective, he thought that 
he might perhaps get to the bottom of it all. It 
is not a bad thing to be concerned on the same 
side with a lord, when the lord is in earnest. 
Lord RufFord was very angry about the poison 
-in tlie covert, and would probably be ready to 
pay very handsomely for having the criminal 
found and punished. The criminal, of course, 
was Goarly. Nickem did not doubt that for a 
moment, and would not have doubted it which- 
ever side he might have taken. Nickem did not 
suppose that any one for a moment really doubt- 
ed Goarly's guilt. But to his eyes such certain- 
ty amounted to nothing, if evidence of the crime 
were not forthcoming. He probably felt within 
his own bosom that the last judgment of all would 
depend in some way on terrestrial evidence, and 
was quite sure that it was by such that a man's 
conscience should be aifected. If Goarly had 
so done the deed as to be beyond the possibili- 
t}'' of detection, Nickem could not have brought 
himself to regard Goarly as a sinner. As it was, 
he had considerable respect for Goarly ; but 
might it not be possible to drop down upon 
Scrobby? Bearside, witli his case against the 
lord, would be nowhere, if Goarly could be got 
to own that he had been suborned by Scrobby 
to put down the poison. Or if, in default of 
this, any close communication could be proved 
between Goarly and Scrobby, Scrobby's injury 
and spirit of revenge being patent, then, too, 
Beai'side would not have much of a case. A 
jury would look at that question of damages 
with a very different eye if Scrobby's spirit of 
revenge could be proved at the trial, and also the 
poisoning, and also machinations between Scrob- 
by and Goarly. 

Nickem was a little red-haired man about for- 
ty, who wrote a good flourishing hand, could en- 
dure an immense amount of work, and drink a 
large amount of alcohol without being drunk. 
His nose and f;xce were all over blotches, and he 
looked to be dissipated and disreputable. But, 
as he often boasted, no one could say that "black 



was the white of his eye;" by which he meant 
to insinuate'that he had not been detected in any 
thing dishonest, and that he was never too tipsy 
to do his work. He was a married man, and did 
not keep his wife and children in absolute com- 
fort ; but they lived, and Mr. Nickem, in some 
fashion, paid his way. 

There was another clerk in the office, a very 
much younger man, named Sundown, and Nick- 
em could not make his proposition to Mr. Mas- 
ters till Sundown had left the office. Nickem 
himself had only matured his plans at dinner- 
time, and was obliged to be reticent, till at six 
o'clock Sundown took himself off. Mr. Masters 
was, at the moment, locking his own desk, when 
Nickem winked at him to stay. Mr. Masters 
did stay, and Sundown did at last leave the of- 
fice. 

" You couldn't let me leave home for three 
days?" said Nickem. "There ain't much a-do- 
ing." 

"What do you want it for ?" 

"That Goarly is a great blackguard, Mr. 
Masters. " 

' ' Very likel v. Do you know any thing about 
him ?" 

Nickem scratched his head and rubbed his 
his chin. "I think I could manage to know 
something." 

"In what way?" 

" I don't think I'm quite prepared to say, sir. 
I shouldn't use your name, of course. But 
they're down upon Lord RufFord, and if you 
could lend me a trifle of thirty shillings, sir, I 
think I could get to the bottom of it. His lord- 
ship would be awful obliged to any one who 
could hit it off." 

Mr. Masters did give his clerk leave for three 
days, and did advance him the required money. 
And when he suggested in a whisper that per- 
haps the circumstance need not be mentioned to 
Mrs. Masters, Nickem winked again and put his 
forefinger to the side of his big carbuncled nose. 

That evening Larry Twentyman came in, but 
was not received with any great favor by Mrs. 
Masters. There was growing up at this mo- 
ment in Dillsborough the bitterness of real war- 
fare between the friends and enemies of sport 
in general, and Mrs. Masters was ranking her- 
self thereby among the enemies. Larry was, of 
course, one of the friends. But, unhappily, there 
was a slight difference of sentiment even in Lar- 
ry's own house, and on this very morning old 
Mrs. Twentyman had expressed to Mrs. Masters 
a feeling of wrong which had gradually risen 
from the annual demolition of her pet brood of 
turkeys. She declared that for the last three 
years every turkey poult had gone, and that at 
last she was beginning to feel it. "It's over a 
hundred of 'em they've had, and it is wearing," 
said the old woman. Larry had twenty times 
begged her to give up the rearing of turkeys, but 
her heart had been too high for that. "I don't 
know why Lord Rufford's foxes are to be thought 
of always, and nobody is to think about your poor 
mother's poultry," said Mrs. Masters, lugging 
the subject in neck and heels. 

"Has she been talking to you, Mrs. Masters, 
about her turkeys ?" 

"Your mother may speak to me, I suppose, 
if she likes it, without offense to Lord Ruftbrd." 

" Lord RufFord has got nothing to do with it." 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



39 



"The wood belongs to him," said Mrs. Mas- 
teis. "* 

"Foxes are much better than turkeys, any- 
way," said Kate Masters. 

"If you don't hold your tongue, miss, you'll 
be sent to bed ! The wood belongs tc his lord- 
ship, and the foxes are a nuisance. " 

"He keeps the foxes for the county, and 
where would the county be without them?" be- 
gan Larry. "What is it brings money into 
such a place as this ?" 

"To Eunciman's stables, and Harry Stubbings, 
and the like of them. What money does it bring 
ill to steady, honest people ?" 

' ' Look at all the grooms, " said Larry. 

"The impudentest set of young vipers about 
the place, " said the lady. 

"Look at Grice's business." Grice was the 
saddler. 

"Grice, indeed! What's Grice?" 

" And the price of horses." 

"Yes; making every thing dear that ought 
to be cheap. I don't see, and I never shall see, 
and I never will see, any good in extravagant 
idleness. As for Kate, she shall never go out 
hunting again : she has torn Maiy's habit to 
pieces. And shooting is worse. Why is a man 
to have a flock of voracious cormorants come 
down upon his corn-fields? I'm all in favor of 
Goarly, and so I tell you, Mr. Twentyraan." 
After this poor Larry went away, finding that 
he had no opportunity for saying a word to 
Mary Masters. 



CHAPTER XV. 

A FIT COMPANION FOR ME AND MY SISTERS. 

On that same Wednesday Reginald Morton 
had called at the attorney's house, had asked for 
Miss Masters, and had found her alone. Mrs. 
Masters at the time had been out, picking up 
intelligence about the great case, and the two 
younger girls had been at school. Reginald, as 
he walked home from Bragton all alone on that 
occasion when Larry had returned with Mary, 
was quite sure that he would never willingly go 
into Mary's presence again. Why should he dis- 
turb his mind about such a girl — one who could 
rush into the arms of such a man as Larry Twen- 
tyman ? Or, indeed, why disturb his mind about 
any girl? That was not the manner of life 
which he had planned for himself. After that he 
shut himself up for a few days, and was not much 
seen by any of the Dillsborough folk. But on this 
Wednesday he received a letter, and, as he told 
himself, merely in consequence of that letter he 
called at the attorney's house and asked for Miss 
Masters. 

He was shown up into the beautiful drawing- 
room, and in a few minutes Mary came to him. 
"I have brought you a letter from my aunt," 
he said. 

"From Lady Ushant ? I am so glad !" 

"She was writing to me, and she put this un- 
der cover. I know what it contains. She wants 
you to go to her at Cheltenham for a month." 

"Oh, Mr. Morton!" 

"Would you like to go?" 

" How should I not like to go ? Lady Usliant 
is my dearest, dearest friend. It is so very good 
of her to think of me." 



" She talks of the first week in December, and 
wants you to be there for Christmas." 

" I don't at all know that I can go, Mr. Mor- 
ton." 

"Why not go?" 

"I'm afraid mamma will not spare me." 
There were many reasons. She could hardly 
go on such a visit without some renewal of her 
scanty wardrobe, which perhaps the family funds 
would not permit. And, as she knew very well, 
Mrs. Masters was not at all favorable to Lady 
Ushant. If the old lady had altogether kept 
Mary, it might have been very well ; but she had 
not done so, and Mrs. Masters had more than 
once said that that kind of thing must be all over 
— meaning that Mary was to drop her intimacy 
with high-born people that were of no real use. 
And tiien there was Mr. Twentyman and his 
suit. Maiy had for some time felt that her step- 
mother intended her to understand that her only 
escape from home would be by becoming Mrs. 
Twentyman. " I don't think it will be possible, 
Mr. Morton." 

"My aunt will be very soriy." 

" Oh, how sorry shall I be! It is like having 
another little bit of heaven before me." 

Tiien he said what he certainl}' should not 
have said. " I thought. Miss Masters, that your 
heaven was all here." 

"What do you mean by that, Mr. Morton?" 
she asked, blushing up to her hair. Of course 
she knew what he meant, and of course she was 
angry with him. Ever since that walk her mind 
had been troubled by ideas as to what he would 
think about her, and now he was telling her what 
he thought. 

" I fancied that you were happy here, without 
going to see an old woman who, after all, has 
not much amusement to off'er to you." 

"I don't want any amusement." 

" At any rate, you will answer Lady Ushant ?" 

" Of course I shall answer her." 

"Perhaps you can let me know. She wishes 
me to take you to Cheltenham. I shall go for a 
couple of days, but I shall not stay longer. If 
you are going, perhaps you would allow me to 
travel with you." 

" Of course it would be very kind ; but I don't 
suppose that I shall go. I am sure Lady Ushant 
won't believe that I am kept away from her by 
any pleasure of my own here. I can explain it 
all to her, and she will understand me." She 
hardly meant to reproach him. Slie did not 
mean to assume an intimacy sufficient for re- 
proach. But he felt that she had reproached 
him. "I love Lady Ushant so dearly that I 
would go anywhere to see her if I could." 

"Then I think it could be managed. Your 
father — " 

"Papa does not attend much to us girls. It 
is mamma that manages all that. At any rate, 
I will write to Lady Ushant, and will ask papa 
to let you know. " 

Then it seemed as though there were nothing 
else for him but to go, and yet he wanted to say 
some other word. If he had been cruel in throw- 
ing Mr. Twentyman in her teeth, surely he ought 
to apologize. ' ' I did not mean to say any thing 
to offend you." 

"You have not offended me at all, Mr. Mor- 
ton." 

"If I did think that, that—" 



40 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



" It does not signify in the least. I only want 
Lady Ushant to understand that if I could pos- 
sibly go to her, I would rather do that than any 
thing else in the world. Because Lady Ushant 
is kind to me, I needn't expect other people to 
be so." Reginald Morton was, of course, the 
"other people." 

Then he paused a moment. "I did so long," 
he said, "to wdlk round the old place with you 
the other day before these people came tliere, and 
I was so disappointed when you would not come 
with me." 

" I was coming." 

"But you went back with — that other man." 

" Of course I did, when you showed so plain- 
ly that you didn't want him to join you. What 
was I to do ? I couldn't send him away. Mr. 
Twentyman is a very intimate friend of ours, and 
very kind to Dolly and Kate." 

" I wished so much to talk to you about the 
old days." 

"And I wish to go to your aunt, Mr, Mor- 
ton ; but we can't all of us have what we wish. 
Of course I saw that you were very angry, but I 
couldn't help that. Perhaps it was wrong in Mr. 
Twentyman to oiFer to walk with you." 

"I didn't say so at all." 

"You looked it, at any rate, Mr, Morton. 
And as Mr. Twentyman is a friend of ours — " 

"You were angry with me." 

" I don't say that. But as you were too grand 
for our friend, of course you were too grand for 
us." 

" That is a very unkind way of putting it. I 
don't think I am grand. A man may wish to 
have a little conversation with a very old friend 
without being interrupted, and yet not be grand. 
I dare say Mr. Twentyman is just as good as I 
am." 

" You don't think that, Mr. Morton." 

" I believe him to be a great deal better, for 
he earns his bread, and takes care of his mother, 
and, as far as I know, does his duty thoroughly." 

"I know the difference, Mr. Morton, and of 
course I know how you feel it. I don't suppose 
that Mr. Twentyman is a fit companion for any 
of the Mortons, but, for all that, he may be a fit 
companion for me and my sisters." Surely she 
must have said this with the express object of 
declaring to him that, in spite of the advantages 
of her education, she chose to put herself in the 
ranks of the Twentymans, Runcimans, and such- 
like. He had come there ardently wishing that 
she might be allowed to go to his aunt, and re- 
solved that he would take her himself if it were 
possible. But now he almost thought that she 
had better not go. If she had made her election, 
she must be allowed to abide by it. If she meant 
to marry Mr. Twentyman, what good could she 
get by associating with his aunt or with him ? 
And had she not as good as told him that she 
meant to marry Mr. Twentj^man ? She had, at 
any rate, very plainly declared that she regarded 
Mr. Twentyman as her equal in rank. Then he 
took his leave without any further explanation. 
Even if she did go to Cheltenham, he would not 
take her. 

After that, he walked straight out to Bragton. 
He was, of course, altogether unconscious what 
grand things his cousin John had intended to do 
by him, had not the honorable old lady inter- 
fered ; but he had made up his mind that duty 



required him to call at the house. So he walked 
by the path across the bridge, and when he came 
out on the gi-avel road near the front door he 
found a gentleman smoking a cigar and looking 
around him. It was Mr. Gotobed, who had just 
returned from a visit which he had made, the cir- 
cumstances of which must be narrated in the 
next chapter. The Senator lifted his hat, and 
remarked that it was a very fine afternoon. 
Reginald lifted his hat and assented. "Mr. 
Morton, sir, I think is out with the ladies, taking 
a drive," 

" I will leave a card, then," 

"The old lady is at home, sir, if you wish to 
see her," continued the Senator, following Regi- 
nald up to the door. 

"Oh, Mr. Reginald, is that you?" said old 
Mrs. Hopkins, taking the card, "They are all 
out — except herself." As he certainly did not 
wish to see " herself," he greeted the old woman 
and left his card. 

" You live in these parts, sir ?" asked the Sen- 
ator. 

"In the town yonder." 

' ' Because Mr. Morton's housekeeper seems_to 
know you." 

" She knows me very well, as I was brought 
up in this house. Good-morning to you. " 

" Good-afternoon to you, sir. Perhaps you 
can tell me who lives in that country residence 
— what you call a farm-house — on the other side 
of the road." Reginald said that he presumed 
the gentleman was alluding to Mr. Twentynaan's 
house, 

' ' Ah yes, I dare say. That was the name I 
heard up there. You are not Mr. Twentyman, 
sir?" 

"My name is Morton." 

" Morton, is it ? Perhaps my friends — ah, ah, 
yes." He didn't like to say uncle, because Reg- 
inald didn't look old enougli ; and he knew he 
ought not to say brother, because the elder brother 
in England would certainly have had the property. 

"I am Mr. John Morton's cousin." 

."Oh — Mr. Morton's cousin, I asked wheth- 
er you were the owner of that farm-house, be- 
cause I intruded just now by passing through the 
yards, and I would have apologized. Good-aft- 
ernoon to you, sir. " Then Reginald, having thus 
done his duty, returned home. 

Mary Masters when she was alone was again 
very angry with herself. She knew thoroughly 
how perverse she had been when she declared 
that Larry Twentyman was a fit companion for 
herself, and that she had said it on purpose to 
punish the man who was talking to her. Not a 
day passed, or hardly an hour of a day, in which 
she did not tell herself that the education she 
had received and the early associations of her 
life had made her unfit for the marriage which 
her friends were urging upon her. It was the 
one great sorrow of her life. She even repented 
of the good things of her early days, because they 
had given her a distaste for what might have 
otherwise been happiness and good fortune. 
There had been moments in which she had told 
herself that she ought to marry Larry Twenty- 
man and adapt herself to the surroundings of her 
life. Since she had seen Reginald Morton fre- 
quently, she had been less prone to tell herself 
so than before ; and yet to this very man she had 
declared her fitness for Larry's companionship ! 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



41 



CHAPTER XVI. 
MR. gotobbd's philanthropt. 

Mr. Gotobed, when the persecutions of Goar- 
ly were described to him at the scene of the dead 
fox, had expressed considerable admiration for 
the man's character as portrayed by what he 
then heard. The man — a poor man, too, and 
despised in the land — was standing up for his 
rights, all alone, against the aristocracy and plu- 
tocracy of the county. He had killed the demon 
whom the aristocracy and plutocracy worshiped, 
and had appeared there in arms ready to defend 
his own territory — one against so many, and so 
poor a man against men so rich ! The Senator 
had at once said that he would call upon Mr. 
Goarly, and the Senator was a man who always 
carried out his purposes. Afterward, from John 
Morton, and from others who knew the country 
better than Morton, he learned further particu- 
lars. On the Monday and Tuesday he fathom- 
ed, or nearly fathomed, that matter of the seven 
shillings and six-pence an acre. He learned, at 
any rate, that the owner of the wood admitted a 
damage done by him to the corn, and had then, 
himself, assessed the damage without consulta- 
tion with the injured party ; and he was inform- 
ed also that Goarly was going to law with the 
lord for a fuller compensation. He liked Goar- 
ly for killing the fox, and he liked him more for 
going to law with Lord Rufford. 

He declared openly at Bragton his sympathy 
with the man, and his intention of expressing it. 
Morton was annoyed, and endeavored to persuade 
him to leave the man alone ; but in vain. No 
doubt, had he expressed himself decisively, and 
told his friend that he should be annoyed by a 
guest from his house taking part in such a mat- 
ter, the Senator would have abstained, and would 
merely have made one more note as to English 
peculiarities and English ideas of justice ; but 
Morton could not bring himself to do this. ' ' The 
feeling of the country will be altogether against 
you," he had said, hoping to deter the Senator. 
The Senator had replied that though the feeling 
of that little bit of the country might be against 
him, he did not believe that such would be the 
case with the feeUng of England generally. The 
ladies had all become a little afraid of Mr. Go- 
tobed, and hardly dared to express an opinion. 
Lady Augustus did say that she supposed that 
Goai'ly was alow, vulgar fellow, which, of course, 
strengthened the Senator in his purpose. 

The Senator on Wednesday would not wait 
for lunch, but started, a little before one, with a 
crust of bread in his pocket, to find his way to 
Goarly's house. There was no difficulty in this, 
as he could see the wood as soon as he had got 
upon the high-road. He found Twentyman's 
gate, and followed directly the route which the 
hunting party had taken, till he came to the spot 
on which the crowd had been assembled. Close 
to this there was a hand-gate leading into Dills- 
borough Wood, and standing in the gate-way was 
a man. The Senator thought that this might 
not improbably be Goarly himself, and asked 
the question, ' ' Might your name be Mr. Goarly, 
sir ?" 

"Me Goarly!" said the man, in infinite dis- 
gust. " I ain't nothing of the kind — and you 
knows it." 

That the man should have been annoyed at 



being taken for Goarly — that man being Bean, 
the gamekeeper, who would willingly have hang- 
ed Goarly if he could, and would have thought it 
quite proper that a law should be now passed for 
hanging him at once — was natural enough. But 
why he should have told the Senator that the 
Senator knew he was not Goarly, it might "be 
difficult to explain. He probably at once re- 
garded the Senator as an enemy, as a man on 
the other side, and therefore as a cunning knave 
who would be sure to come creeping about on 
false pretenses. Bean, who had already heard 
of Bearside, and had heard of Scrobby in con- 
nection with this matter, looked at the Senator 
very hard. He knew Bearside. The man cer- 
tainly was not the attorney ; and, from what he 
had heard of Scrobby, he didn't think he was 
Scrobby. The man was not like what, in his im- 
agination, Scrobby would be. He did not know 
what to make of Mr. Gotobed, who was a per- 
son of an imposing appearance, tall and thin, 
with a long nose and a look of great acateness, 
dressed in black from head to foot, but yet not 
looking quite like an English gentleman. He 
was a man to whom Bean in an ordinary way 
would have been civil — civil in a cold, guarded 
way ; but how was he to be civil to any body 
who addressed him as Goarly ? 

"I did not know it," said the Senator. "As 
Goarly lives near here, I thought that you might 
be Goarly, When I saw Goarly he had a gun, 
and you have a gun. Can you tell me where 
Goarly lives ?" 

" T'other side of the wood," said Bean, point- 
ing back with his thumb. "He never had a 
gun like this in his hand in all his born days." 

" I dare say not, my friend. I can go through 
the wood, I guess ;" for Bean had pointed ex- 
actly over the gate-way. 

" I guess you can't, then," said Bean. The 
man who, like other gamekeepers, lived much 
in the company of gentlemen, was ordinarily a 
civil, courteous fellow, who knew how to smile 
and make things pleasant. But at this moment 
he was veiy much put out. His covert had been 
found full of red herrings and strychnine, and his 
fox had been poisoned. He had lost his guinea 
on the day of the hunt — the guinea which would 
have been his perquisite had they found a live fox 
in his wood. And all this was being done by 
such a fellow as Goarly! And now this aban- 
doned wretch was bringing an action against his 
lordship, and was leagued with such men as 
Scrobby and Bearside ! It was a dreadful state 
of things ! How was it likely that he should 
give a passage through the wood to any body 
coming after Goarly ? ' ' You're on Mr. Twenty- 
man's land now, as I dare say you know." 

"I don't know any thing about it." 

"Well, that wood is Lord Ruff'ord's wood." 

"I did know as much as that, certainly." 

"And you can't go into it." 

"How shall I find Mr. Goarly's house?" 

" If you'll get over that there ditch you'll be 
on Mister Goarly's land, and that's all about it." 
Bean, as he said this, put a strongly ironical em- 
phasis on the term of respect, and then turned 
back into the wood. 

The Senator made his way down the fence to 
the bank on which Goarly had stood with his 
gun, then over into Goarly's field, and so round 
the back of the wood till he saw a small red-brick 



42 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



house standing perhaps four hundred yards from 
the covert, just on the elbow of a lane. It was 
a miserable-looking place, with a pig-sty and a 
dung-heap, and a small horse-pond or duck-pud- 
dle all close around it. The stack of chimneys 
seemed to threaten to fall, and as he approached 
from behind he could see that the two windows 
opening that way were stufiFed with rags. There 
was a little caljbage- garden which now seemed 
to be all stalks, and a single goose waddling about 
the duck-puddle. The Senator went to the door, 
and, having knocked, was investigated by a wom- 
an from behind it. Yes, this was Goarly's house. 
What did the gentleman want ? Goarly was at 
work in the field. Then she came out, the Sen- 
ator having signified his friendly intentions, and 
summoned Goarly to the spot. 

" I hope I see you well, sir," said the Senator, 
putting out his hand as Goarly came up drag- 
ging a dung-fork behind him. 

Goarly rubbed his hand on his breeches before 
he gave it to be shaken, and declared himself to 
be "pretty tidy, considering." 

*'I was present the other day, Mr. Goarly, 
when that dead fox was exposed to view." 

"Was you, sir?" 

"I was given to understand that you had de- 
stroyed the brute." 

"Don't you believe a word on it, then," said 
the woman, interposing. "He didn't do noth- 
ing of the kind. Who ever seed him a-buying 
of red herrings and p'ison ?" 

"Hold your jaw!" said Goarly, familiarly. 
"Let 'em prove it. I don't know who you are, 
sir ; but let 'em prove it. " 

" My name, Mr. Goarly, is Elias Gotobed. I 
am an American citizen, and Senator for the 
State of Mikewa. " Mr. and Mrs. Goarly shook 
their heads at every separate item of information 
tendered to them. "I am on a visit to this 
country, and am at present staying at the house 
of my "friend, Mr. John Morton." 

" He's the gentl'man from Bragton, Dan." 

"Hold your jaw, can't you?" said the hus- 
band. Then he touched his hat to the Senator, 
intending to signify that the Senator might, if he 
pleased, continue his narrative. 

"If you did kill that fox, Mr. Goarly, I think 
you were quite right to kill him. Then Goarly 
winked at him. "I can not imagine that even 
the laws of England could justify a man in per- 
petuating a breed of wild animals that are de- 
structive to his neighbors' property." 

"I could shoot 'un ; not a doubt about that, 
mister. I could shoot 'un — and I wull." 

"Have a care, Dan," whispered Mrs. Goarly. 

" Hold your jaw, will ye ? I could shoot 'un, 
mister. I don't rightly know about p'ison." 

"That fox we saw was poisoned, I suppose," 
said the Senator, carelessly. 

"Have a care, Dan — have a care?" whisper- 
ed the wife. 

"Allow me to assure both of you," said the 
Senator, "that you need fear nothing from me. 
I have come quite as a friend." 

" Thank 'ee, sir," said Goarly, again touching 
his hat. 

" It seems to me," said the Senator, "that in 
this matter a great many men are leagued to- 
gether against you." 

"You may s.ay that, sir. I didn't just catch 
your name, sir. " 



"My name is Gotobed— Gotobed ; Elias Go- 
tobed, Senator from the State of Mikewa to the 
United States Congress." Mrs. Goarly, who un- 
derstood nothing of all these titles, and who had 
all along doubted, dropped a suspicious courtesy. 
Goarly, who understood as little now, took his 
hat altogether off. He was very much puzzled, 
but inclined to think that if he managed mat- 
ters rightly, profit might be got out of this very 
strange meeting. " In my country, Mr. Goarly, 
all men are free and equal." 

" That's a fine thing, sir." 

"It is a fine thing, my friend, if properly un- 
derstood and properly used. Coming from such 
a country, I was shocked to see so many rich men 
banded together against one who, I suppose, is 
not rich." 

" Very far from it," said the woman. 

"It's my own land, you know," said Goarly, 
who was proud of his position as a land-owner. 
"No one can't touch me on it, as long as the 
rates is paid. I'm as good a man here " — and 
he stamped his foot on the ground — "as his 
lordship is in that there wood." 

This was the first word spoken by the Goarlys 
that had pleased the Senator, and this set him off 
again. 

" Just so ; and I admire a man that will stand 
up for his own rights. I am told that you have 
found his lordship's pheasants destructive to your 
corn." 

' ' Didn't leave him hardly a grain last August," 
said Mrs. Goarly. 

"Will you hold your jaw, woman, or will you 
not ?" said the man, turning round fiercely at her. 
"I'm going to have the law of his lordship, sir. 
What's seven -and -six .in acre? There's that 
quantity of pheasants in that wood as 'd eat up 
any mortal thing as ever was growed. Seven- 
and-six!" 

"Didn't you propose arbitration?" 

"I never didn't propose nothin'. I've axed 
two pound, and my lawyer says as how I'll get it. 
What I sold come off that other bit of ground 
down there. Wonderful crop ! And this 'd 've 
been the same. His lordship ain't nothin' to me, 
Mr. Gotobed." 

"You don't approve of hunting, Mr. Goarly?" 

" Oh, I approves, if they'd pay a poor man for 
what liarm they does him. Look at that there 
goose." Mr. Gotobed did look at the goose. 
"There's nine-and-twenty they've tuk from me, 
and only left 'un that." Now, JMrs. Goarly's 
goose was well known in those parts. It was 
declared that she was more than a match for any 
fox in the county ; but that Mrs. Goarly for the 
last two years had never owned any goose but 
this one. 

"The foxes have eaten them all?" asked the 
Senator. 

"Every mortal one." 

"And the gentlemen of the hunt have paid you 
nothing?" 

" I had four half-crowns once," said the wom- 
an. 

" If you don't send the heads, you don't get it," 
said the man, "and then they'll keep you wait- 
ing months and months, just for their pleasures. 
Who's agoing to put up with that ? I ain't." 

"And now you're going to law ?" 

" I am — like a man. His lordsliip ain't noth- 
in' to me. I ain't afeard of his lordship." 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR, 



43 



"Will it cost you much ?" 

"That's just "what it will do, sii-," said the 
woman. 

"Didn't I tell you, hold your jaw ?" 

" The gentl'man was going to offer to help us 
a little, Dan." 

"I was going to say that I am interested in 
the case, and that you have all my good wishes. 
I do not like to ofter pecuniaiy help." 

" You're very good, sir ; very good. This hit 
of land is mine — not a doubt of it ; but we're 
poor, sir." 

"Indeed we is," said the woman. "What 
with taxes and rates, and tliem foxes as won't 
let me rear a head of poultry, and them brutes 
of birds as eats up the com, I often tells him 
he'd better sell the bit o' land and just set up for 
a public." 

"It belonged to my feyther and grandfey- 
ther," said Goarly. 

Then the Senator's heart was softened again, 
and he explained at great length that he would 
watch the case, and, if he saw his way clearly, 
befriend it with substantial aid. He asked about 
the attorney, and took down Bearside's address. 
After that he shook hands with both of them, 
and then made his way back to Bragton, through 
Mr. Twentyman's farm. 

Mr. and" Mrs. Goarly were left in a state of 
great perturbation of mind. Tliey could not in 
the least make out among themselves who the 
gentleman was, or whether he had come for 
good or evil. That he called himself Gotobed, 
Goarly did remember, and also that he had said 
tliat he was an American. All that which had 
referred to Senatorial honors and the State of 
Mikewa had been lost upon Goarly, The ques- 
tion, of course, arose whether he was not a spy 
sent out by Lord RufFord's man of business, and 
Mrs. Goarly was clearly of opinion that such had 
been the nature of his employment. Had he re- 
ally been a friend, she suggested, he would have 
left a sovereign behind him. " He didn't get 
no information from me," said Goarly. 

" Only about Mr. Bearside." 

" What's the odds of that? Tliey all knows 
that. Bearside ! Why should I be ashamed of 
Bearside? I'll do a deal better with Bearside 
than I would with that old woman, Masters." 

"But he took it down in writing, Dan." 

" What the d— 's the odds in that?" 

"I don't like it when they puts it down in 
writing." 

"Hold your jaw!" said Goarly, as he slowly 
shouldered tlie dung-fork to take it back to his 
work. But as they again discussed the matter 
that night, the opinion gained ground upon them 
that the Senator had been an emissary from the 
enemy. 



CHAPTER XVII. 

LORD RXTFrORD'S INVITATION, 

On that same Wednesday afternoon, when 
Morton returned with the ladies in the carriage, 
he found that a mounted servant had arrived 
from Rufford Hall with a letter, and had been 
instructed to wait for an answer. The man was 
now refreshing himself in the servants' hall. 
Morton, when he had read the letter, found that 
it required some consideration before he could 



answer it. It was to the following purport: 
Lord Rufford had a party of ladies and gentle- 
men at Rufford Hall, as his sister, Lady Pen- 
wether, was staying with him. Would Mr. Mor- 
ton and his guests come over to Ruifcrd Hall on 
Monday and stay till Wednesday ? T)n Tuesday 
there was to be a dance for the people of the 
neighborhood. Then he specified, as the guests 
invited. Lady Augustus and her daughter, and 
Mr, Gotobed — omitting the Honorable Mrs. Mor- 
ton, of whose sojourn in the county he might 
have been ignorant. His lordship went on to 
say that he trusted the abruptness of the invita- 
tion might be excused on account of the near- 
ness of their neighborhood, and the old friend- 
sliip which had existed between their families. 
He had had, he said, the pleasure of being ac- 
quainted with Lady Augustus and her daughter 
in London, and would be proud to see Mr. Goto- 
bed at his house during his sojourn in the coun- 
ty. Then h? added, in a postscript, that the 
hounds met at Rufford Hall on Tuesday, and 
that he had a horse that carried a lady well, if 
Miss Trefoil would like to ride him. He could 
also put up a horse for Mr. Morton. 

This was all very civil, but there was some- 
thing in it that was almost too civil. There 
came upon Morton a suspicion, which he did not 
even define to himself, that the invitation was 
due to Arabella's charms. There were many 
reasons why he did not wish to accept it. His 
grandmother was left out, and he feared that she 
would be angry. He did not feel inchned to 
take the American Senator to the lord's house, 
knowing as he did that the American Senator 
was interfeiing in a ridiculous manner on behalf 
of Goarly ; and he did not particular!}^ wish to 
be present at Rufford Hall with the "Trefoil la- 
dies. Hitherto he had received very little satis- 
faction from their visit to Bragton — so little that 
he had been more than once on the verge of ask- 
ing Arabella whether she wished to be relieved 
from her engagement. She had never quite 
given him the opportunity. She had always 
been gracious to him in a cold, disagreeable, 
glassy manner — in a manner that irked his spirit, 
but still did not justifj^ him in expressing anger. 
Lady Augustus was almost uncivil to him, and 
from time to time said little things which were 
hard to bear ; but he was not going to marry 
Lady Augustus, and could revenge himself 
against her by resolving in his own breast that 
he would have as little as possible to do with her 
after his marriage. That was the condition of 
his mind toward them, and in that condition he 
did not want to take them to Lord Rufford's 
house. Their visit to him would be over on Mon- 
day, and it would, he thought, be better for him 
that they should then go on their way to the 
Gores, as they had proposed. 

But he did not hke to answer the letter by a 
refusal, without saying a word to his guests on 
the subject. He would not object to ignore the 
Senator, but he was afraid that, if nothing were 
to be said to Arabella, she Avould hear of it here- 
after, and would complain of such treatment. 
He therefore directed that the man might be kept 
waiting while he consulted the lady of his choice. 
It was with difficulty that he found himself alone 
with her, and then only by sending hflr maid in 
quest of her. He did get her at last into his own 
sitting-room, and then, having placed her in a 



44 



THE MIERICAN SENATOE. 



chair near the fire, gave her Lord Rufford's letter 
to read. 

"What can it be," said she, looking up into 
his face with her great, inexpressive eyes, ' ' tliat 
has requirec^all this solemnity ?" She still look- 
ed up at him, and did not even open the letter. 

"I^id not like to answer that without show- 
ing it to you. I don't suppose you would care 
to go." 

" Go where ?" 

" It is from Lord Rufford — for Monday." 

"From Lord Rufford!" 
' "It would break up all j'our plans and your 
mother's, and would probably be a great bore. " 

Then she did read the letter, very carefully and 
very slowly, weigliing every word of it as she 
read it. Did it mean more than it said? But 
though she read it slowly and carefully, and was 
long before she made him any answer, she had 
very quickly resolved that the invitation should 
be accepted. It would suit her ver^ well to know 
Lady Penwether. It might possibly suit her still 
better to become intimate with Loi'd Rufford. 
She was delighted at the idea of riding Lord Ruf- 
ford's horse. As her eyes dwelt on the paper, 
she too began to think that the invitation had 
been chiefly given on her account. At any rate, 
she would go. She had understood perfectly 
well from the first tone of her lover's voice that 
he did not wish to subject her to the allurements 
of Rufford Hall. She was clever enough, and 
could read it all. But she did not mean to thi-ow 
away a chance for the sake of pleasing him. 
She must not at once displease him by declaring 
her purpose strongly, and therefore, as she slow- 
ly continued her reading, she resolved that she 
would throw the burden upon her mother. ' ' Had 
I not better show this to mamma?" she said. 

" You can, if you please. You are going to 
the Gores on Monday." 

"We could not go earlier; but we might put 
it off for a couple of days if we pleased. Would 
it bore you ?" 

" I don't mind about myself. I'm not a very 
great man for dances." 
e "You'd sooner write a report — wouldn't you 
— about the products of the country ?" 

"A great deal sooner," said the Paragon. 

"But, you see, we haven't all of us got prod- 
ucts to write about. I don't care very much 
about it myself; but, if you don't mind, I'll ask 
mamma." Of course he was obliged to consent, 
and merely informed her, as slie went off with 
the letter, that a servant was waiting for an an- 
swer. 

"To go to Lord Rufford's!" said Lady Au- 
gustus. 

"From Monday till Wednesday, mamma. 
Of course we must go." 

" I promised poor Mrs. Gore." 

' ' Nonsense, mamma ! The Gores can do \'ery 
well without us. That was only to be a week, 
and we can still stay out our time. Of course, 
this has only been sent because we are here." 

"I should say so. I don't suppose Lord Ruf- 
ford would care to know Mr. Morton. Lady 
Penwether goes everywhere; doesn't she?" 

"Everywhere. It would suit me to a 't' to 
get on to Lady Pen wether's books. But, mam- 
ma, of course it's not that. If Lord Rufford 
should say a word, it is so much easier to man- 
age down in the country than up in London. 



He has forty thousand pounds a year, if he has 
a penny." 

"How many girls have tried the same thing 
with him! But I don't mind. I've always said 
that John Morton and Bragton would not do. " 

"No, mamma; you haven't. You were the 
first to say they would do ?" 

" I only said that if there were nothing else — " 

" Oh, mamma, how can you say such things ! 
Nothing else — as if he were the last man ! You 
said distinctly that Bragton was seven thousand 
pounds a year, and that it would do very well. 
You may change your mind, if you like, but it's 
no good trying to back out of your own doings." 

" Then 1 have changed my mind." 

" Yes — without thinking what I have to go 
through. I'm not going to throw myself at 
Lord Rufford's head so as to lose my chance 
here; but we'll go and see how the land lies. 
Of course you'll go, mamma?" 

"If you think it is for your advantage, my 
dear." 

" My advantage ! It's part of the work to be 
done, and we may as well do it. At any rate, 
I'll tell him to accept. We shall have this odi- 
ous American with us, but that can't be helped." 

"And the old wOman?" 

"Lord Rufford doesn't say any thing about 
her. I don't suppose he's such a muff but what 
he can leave his grandmother behind for a couple 
of days." Then she went back to Morton, and 
told him that lier mother was particularly anx- 
ious to make the acquaintance of Lady Penweth- 
er, and that she had decided upon going to Ruf- 
ford Hall. "It will be a very nice opportuni- 
ty, " said she, "for you to become acquainted with 
Lord Rufford." 

Then he was almost angry. " I can make 
plenty of such opportunities for myself, when I 
want them," he said. "Of course, if you and 
Lady Augustus like it, we will go. But let it 
stand on its right bottom. " 

"It may stand on any bottom you please." 

"Do 3'ou mean to ride the man's horse ?" 

" Certainly I do. I never refuse a good of- 
fer. Why shouldn't I ride the man's horse? 
Did you never he;ir before of a young lady bor- 
rowing a gentleman's horse ?" 

"No lady belonging to me will ever do so, 
unless the gentleman be a very close friend in- 
deed. " 

"The lady in this case does not belong to 
you, Mr. Morton ; and therefore, if you have no 
other objection, she will ride Lord Ruflbrd's 
horse. Perhaps you will not think it too much 
trouble to signify the lady's acceptance of the 
mount in your letter." 

Then she swam out of the room, knowing that 
she left him in anger. After that he had to find 
Mr. Gotobed. The going was now decided on 
as fiir as he was concerned, and it would make 
very little difterence whether the American went 
or not, except that his letter would have been 
easier to him in accepting the invitation for three 
persons than for four. But the Senator was, of 
course, willing. It was the Senator's object to 
see England, and Lord Ruflbrd's house would 
be an additional bit of England. The Senator 
would be delighted to have an opportunity of 
saying what he thought about Goaily at Loi-d 
Ruflbrd's table. After that, before this weary 
letter could be written, he was compelled to see 



THE AMEEICAN SENATOK. 



45 



his grandmother and explain to her that she had 
been omitted. 

"Of course, ma'am, they did not know that 
you were at Bragton, as you were not in the 
carriage at the 'meet.' " 

"That's nonsense, John. Did Lord Ruflford 
suppose that you were entertaining ladies here 
without some one to be mistress of the house ? 
Of course he knew that I was here. I shouldn't 
have gone — you may be sure of that. I'm not 
in the habit of going to the houses of people I 
don't know. Indeed, I think it's an impertinence 
in them to ask in that way. I'm surprised tliat 
you would go on such an invitation." 

" The Trefoils knew them." 

"If Lady Pen wether knew them, why could 
not Lady Penwether ask them independently of 
us? I don't believe they ever spoke to Lady 
Penwether in their lives. Lord RufFord and 
Miss Trefoil may, very likely, be London ac- 
quaintances. He may admire her, and therefore 
choose to have her at his ball. I know nothing 
about that. As far as I am concerned, he's 
quite welcome to keep her." 

All this was not very pleasant to John Morton. 
He knew already that his grandmother and Lady 
Augustus hated each other, and said spiteful 
things, not only behind each other's back, but 
openly to each other's face. But now he had 
been told by the girl who was engaged to be his 
wife that she did not belong to him ; and by his 
grandmother — who stood to him in the place of 
his mother — that she wished that this girl belong- 
ed to some one else! He was not quite sure 
that he did not wish it himself. But, even were 
it to be so, and should there be reason for him to 
be gratified at the escape, still he did not relish 
the idea of taking the girl himself to the other 
man's house. He wrote the letter, however, and 
dispatched it. But even the writing of it was 
difficult and disagreeable. When various details 
of hospitality have been offered by a comparative 
stranger, a man hardly likes to accept them all. 
But in this case he had to do it. He would be 
delighted, he said, to stay at RufFord Hall from 
the Monday to the Wednesday ; Lady Augustus 
and Miss Trefoil would also be delighted ; and 
so also would Mr. Gotobed be delighted. And 
Miss Trefoil would be further delighted to accept 
Lord Ru (ford's offer of a horse for the Tuesday. 
As for himself, if he rode at all, a horse would 
come for him to the meet. Then he .wrote an- 
other note to Mr. Harry Stubbings, bespeaking 
a mount for the occasion. 

On that evening the party at Bragton was not 
a very pleasant one. "No doubt you are in- 
timate with Lady Penwether, Lady Augustus," 
said Mrs. Morton. Now, Lady Penwether was 
a very fashionable woman, whom to know was 
considered an honor. 

"What makes you ask, ma'am?" said Lady 
Augustus. 

"Only as you were taking your daughter to 
her brother's house, and as he is a bachelor." 

"My dear Mrs. Morton, really you may leave 
me to take care of myself and of my daugliter too. 
You have lived so much out of the world for the 
last thirty years that it is quite amusing." 

' ' There are some persons' worlds that it is a 
great deal better for a lady to be out of," said 
Mrs. Morton. :■ 

Then Lady Augustus put up her hands, and 



turned round, and affected to laugh, of all which 
things Mr. Gotobed, who was studying English 
society, made notes in his own mind. 

"What sort of position does that mail Goarly 
occupy here?" the Senator asked, immediately 
after dinner. 

"No position at all," said Morton. 

"Every man created holds some position, as 
I take it. The land is his own." 

" He has, I believe, about fifty acres." 

"And yet he seems to be in the lowest depth 
of poverty and ignorance." 

" Of course ; he mismanages his property, and 
probably drinks." 

" I dare say, Mr. Morton. He is proud of his 
rights, and talked of his father and his grandfa- 
ther, and yet I doubt whether you would find a 
man so squalid and so ignorant in all the States. 
I suppose he is injured by having a lord so near 
him." 

" Quite the contrary, if he would be amena- 
ble." 

"You mean, if he would be a creature of the 
lord's. And why was that other man so uncivil 
to me — the man who was the lord's gamekeep- 
er?" 

" Because you went there as a friend of Goar- 
ly." 

"And that's his idea of English fair play?" 
asked the Senator, with a jeer. 

"The truth is, Mr. Gotobed," said Morton, 
endeavoring to explain it all, "you see a part 
only, and not the whole. That man Goarly is a 
rascal." 

"So CA'ery body says." 

"And why can't you believe every body?" 

"So every body says — on the lord's side. 
But, before I'm done, I'll find out what people 
say on the other side. I can see that he is igno- 
rant and squalid ; but that, very probably, is the 
lord's fault. It may be that he is a rascal, and 
that the lord is to blame for that too. But if 
the lord's pheasants have eaten up Goarly's corn, 
the lord ought to pay for the corn, whether Goar- 
ly be a rascal or not." 

Then John Morton made up his mind that he 
would never ask another American Senator to 
his house. 



CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE attorney's FAMILY IS DISTURBED. 

On that Wednesday evening Mary Masters 
said nothing to any of her family as to the invi- 
tation from Lady Ushant. She very much wish- 
ed to accept it. Latterly, for the last month or 
two, her distaste to the kind of life for which her 
step-mother was preparing her had increased upon 
her greatly. There had been days in which she 
had doubted whether it might not be expedient 
that she should accept Mr. Twentyman's offer. 
She believed no ill of him. She thought him to 
be a fine, manly young fellow, with a good heart 
and high principles. She never asked herself 
whether he were or were not a gentleman. ' She 
had never even inquired of herself whether she 
herself were or were not especially a lady. But 
with all her efforts to like the man — because she 
thought that by doing so she would relieve and 
please her fiather — yet he was distasteful to her ; 
and now, since that walk home with him from 



46 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



Bragton Bridge, he was more distasteful than 
ever. She did not tell herself that a short visit, 
say for a month, to Cheltenham, would pi'event 
his further attentions, but she felt that there 
would be a temporary escape. I do not think 
that she dwelt much on the suggestion that Reg- 
inald Morton should be her companion on the 
journey, but the idea of such companionship, 
even for a short time, was pleasant to her. If 
he did this, surely then he would forgive her for 
having left him at the bridge. Siie had much to 
think of before she could resolve how she should 
tell her tidings. Should she show the letter first 
to her step-mother or to her fatlier ? In the or- 
dinary course of things in that house the former 
course would be expected. It was Mrs. Masters 
who managed every thing affecting the fiimily. 
It was she who gave permission or denied per- 
mission for every indulgence. She was general- 
ly fair to the three girls, taking special pride to 
herself for doing her duty by her step-daughter ; 
but on this very account she was the more likely 
to be angry if Mary passed her by on such an oc- 
casion as this and went to her father. But should 
her step-mother have once refused her permission, 
then the matter would have been decided against 
her. It would be quite useless to appeal from 
her step-mother to her father, nor would such an 
appeal come within the scope of her own princi- 
ples. Tlie Mortons, and especially Lady Ushant, 
had been her fiither's friends in old days, and she 
thought that perhaps she might prevail in this 
case if she could speak to her father first. She 
knew well what would be the great, or rather 
the real, objection. Her mother would not wish 
that she should be removed so long from Larry 
Twentyman. There might be difficulties about 
her clothes, but her father, she knew, would be 
kind to her. 

At last she made up her mind that she would 
ask her father. He was always at his office-desk 
for half an hour in the morning, before the clerks 
had come, and on the following day, a minute or 
two after he had taken his seat, she knocked at 
the door. He was busy reading a letter from 
Lord Rufford's man of business, asking him cer- 
tain questions about Goarly, and almost employ- 
ing him to get up the case on Lord Rufford's be- 
half. There was a certain triumph to him in 
this. It was not by his means that tidings had 
reached Lord Rufford of his refusal to undertake 
Goarly's case. But Runciman, who was often 
allowed by liis lordship to say a few woi'ds to 
him in the hunting-field, had mentioned the cir- 
cumstance. "A man like Mr. Masters is better 
without such a blackguard as that," the lord had 
said. Then Runciman had replied, "No doubt, 
my lord ; no doubt. But Dillsborough is a poor 
place, and business is business, my lord." Then 
Lord Rufford had remembered it, and the letter 
which the attorney was somewhat triumphantly 
reading had been the consequence. 

"Is that you, Mary? What can I do for 
you, my love ?" 

"Papa, I want you to read this." Then Mr. 
IMasters read the letter. "I should so like to 
go." 

" Should you, my dear?" 

" Oh yes ! Lady Ushant has been so kind to 
me — all my life ! And I do so love her ! " 

" What does mamma say?" 

"I haven't asked mamma." 



"Is there any reason why you shouldn't go ?" 

Of that one reason — as to Larry Twentyman — 
of course she would say nothing. She must leave 
him to discuss that with her mother. " I should 
want some clothes, papa ; a dress, and some 
boots, and a new hat, and there would be money 
for the journey, and a few other things." The 
attorney winced, but at the same time remember- 
ed that something was due to his eldest child in 
the way of garments and relaxation. "I never 
like to be an expense, papa." 

"You are very good about that, my dear. I 
don't see why you shouldn't go. It's very kind 
of Lady Ushant. I'll talk to mamma." Then 
Mary went away to get the breakfast, fearing 
that before long there would be black looks in 
the house. 

Mr. Masters at once went up to his wife — hav- 
ing given himself a minute or two to calculate 
that he would let Mary have twenty pounds for 
the occasion — and made his proposition. "I 
never heard of such nonsense in my life," said 
Mrs. Masters. 

' ' Nonsense, my dear ! Why should it be non- 
sense?" 

" Cocking her up with Lady Ushant ! What 
good will Lady Ushant do her ? She's not go- 
ing to live with ladies of quality all her life." 

"Why shouldn't she live with ladies ?" 

" You know what I mean, Gregory. The 
Mortons have dropped you, for any use they were 
to you, long ago, and you may as well make up 
your mind to drop them. You'll go on hanker- 
ing after gentlefolks till you've about ruined 
yom'self." 

When he remembered that he had that very 
morning received a commission from Lord Ruf- 
ford, he thought that this was a little too bad. 
But he was not now in a humor to make known 
to her this piece of good news. " I like to feel 
that she has got friends," he said, going back to 
Mary's proposed visit. 

"Of course she has got friends, if she'll only 
take up with them as she ought to do. Why 
does she go on shilly-shallying with that yoimg 
man, instead of closing upon it at once? If she 
did that, she wouldn't want such friends as Lady 
Ushant. Why did the girl come to you with all 
this, instead of asking me ?" 

"There would be a little money wanted." 

"Money! Yes, I dare say. It's very easy 
to want money, but very hard to get it. If you 
send clients away out of the office with a flea in 
their ear, I don't see how she's to have all man- 
ner of luxuries. She ought to have come to 
me." 

" T don't see that at all, my dear." 

" If I'm to look after her, she shall be said by 
me — that's all. I've done for her just as I have 
for my own, and I'm not going to have her turn 
up her nose at me directly she wants any thing 
for herself. I know what's fit for Mary, and it 
ain't fit that slie should go traipsing away to 
Cheltenham, doing nothing in that old woman's 
parlor, and losing her chances for life. Who is 
to suppose that Larry Twentyman will go on 
dangling after her in this way, month after 
month? The young man wants a wife, and of 
course he'll get one." 

" You can't make her marry the man if she 
don't like him." 

"Like him I She ought to be made to like 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



47 



him. A young man well off as he is, and she 
without a shilling ! All that comes from Ushant- 
ing." It never occurred to Mrs. Masters that 
perhaps the very qualities that had made poor 
Larry so vehemently in love with Mary had come 
from her intercourse with Lady Ushant. "If 
I'm to have my way, she won't go a yard on the 
way to Cheltenham." 

" I've told her she may go," said Mr. Masters, 
whose mind was wandering back to old days — to 
his first wife, and the time when he used to be an 
occasional guest in the big parlor at Bragton. 
He was always ready to acknowledge to himself 
that his present wife was a good and helpful com- 
panion to him and a careful mother to his chil- 
dren ; but there were moments in which he would 
remember with soft regret a different phase of 
his life. Just at present he was somewhat angry, 
and resolving in his own mind that in this case 
he would liave his own way. 

" Then I shall tell her she mayn't," said "Mrs. 
Masters, with a look of dogged determination. 

"I hope you will do nothing of the kind, my 
dear, I've told her that she shall have a few 
pounds to get what she wants, and I won't have 
her disappointed." After that Mrs. Masters 
bounced out of the room, and made herself very 
disagreeable indeed over the tea-things. 

The whole household was much disturbed that 
day. Mrs. Masters said nothing to Mary about 
Lady Ushant all the morning, but said a great 
deal about other things. Poor Mary was asked 
whether she was not ashamed to treat a young 
man as she was treating Mr. Twentyman. Then, 
again, it was demanded of her whether she thought 
it right that all the house should be knocked 
about for her. At dinner Mrs. Masters would 
hardly speak to her husband, but addressed her- 
self exclusively to Dolly and Kate. Mr, Mas- 
ters was not a man who could usually stand this 
kind of thing very long, and was accustomed to 
give up in despair and then take himself off to 
the solace of his office-chair. But on the present 
occasion he went through his meal like a Spar- 
tan, and retired from the room without a sign of 
surrender. In the afternoon about five o'clock 
Mary watched her opportunity, and found him 
again alone. It was incumbent on her to reply 
to Lady Ushant. Would it not be better that 
she should write and say how sorry she was that 
she could not come? "But I want you to go," 
said he. 

"Oh, papa, I can not bear to cause trouble." 

"No, my dear, no ; and I'm sure I don't like 
trouble myself. But in this case I think you 
ought to go. What day has she named ?" Then 
Mary declared that she could not possibly go so 
soon as Lady Ushant had suggested, but that 
she could be ready by the 18th of December. 
" Then write and tell her so, my dear, and I will 
let your mother know that it is fixed." But 
Mary still hesitated, desiring to know whether 
she had no^ better speak to her mother first. " I 
think you had better write your letter first ;" and 
then he absolutely made her write in the office 
and give it to him to be posted. After that he 
promised to communicate to Reginald Morton 
what had been done. 

The household was very much disturbed the 
whole of that evening. Poor Mary never re- 
membered such a state of things ; and when 
there had been any difference of opinion, she had 



hitherto never been the cause of it. Now it was 
all owing to her ! and things were said so terri- 
ble that she hardly knew how to bear them. Her 
father had promised her the twenty pounds, and 
it was insinuated that all tlie comforts of the 
family must be stopped because of this lavish 
extravagance. Her father sat still and bore it, 
almost without a word. Both Dolly and Kate 
were silent and wretched. Mrs. blasters every 
now and then gurgled in her throat, and three or 
four times wiped her eyes. " I'm better out of 
the way altogether," she said at last, jumping up 
and walking toward the door as though she were 
going to leave the room — "and the house, for- 
ever." 

"Mamma," said Mary, rising from her seat, 
"I won't go. I'll write and tell Lady Ushant 
that I can't do it." 

"You're not to mind me," said Mrs. Masters. 
"You are to do what your papa tells you. Ev- 
eiy thing that I've been striving at is to be thrown 
away. I'm to be nobody, and it's quite right 
that your papa should tell you so." 

"Dear mamma, don't talk like that," said 
Mary, clinging hold of her step-mother. 

" Your papa sits tliere and won't say a word," 
snid Mrs. Masters, stamping her foot. 

"What's the good of speaking, when you go 
on like that before the children ?" said Mr. Mas- 
ters, getting up from his chair. "I say that it's 
a proper thing that the girl should go to see the 
old friend who brought her up and has been al- 
ways kind to her! — and she shall go!" Mrs. 
Masters seated herself on the nearest chair, and, 
leaning her head against the wall, began to go 
into hysterics. "Your letter has already gone, 
Mary ; and I desire you will write no other with- 
out letting me know." Then he left the room 
and the house, and absolutely went over to The 
Bush. This latter proceeding was, however, 
hardlj' more than a bravado ; for he merely 
took the opportunity of asking Mrs. Ennciman 
a question at the bar, and then walked back to 
his own house and shut himself up in the office. 

On the next morning he called on Reginald 
Morton, and told him that his daughter had ac- 
cepted Lady Ushant's invitation, but could not go 
till the 18th, " I shall be proud to take charge 
of her," said Reginald. "And as for the change 
in the day, it will suit me all the better." So 
that was settled. 

On the next day, Fi-iday, Mrs. Masters did not 
come down to breakfast, but was waited upon 
upstairs by her own daughters. This with her 
was a most unusual circumstance. The two 
maids were of opinion that such a thing had 
never occurred before, and that, therefore, mas- 
ter must have been out half the night at the pub- 
lic-house, although they had not known it. To 
Mary she would hardly speak a word. She ap- 
peared at dinner, and called her husband Mr. 
Masters when she helped him to stew. All the 
afternoon she averred that her head was split- 
ting, but managed to say many very bitter things 
about gentlemen in general, and expressed a ve- 
hement hope that that poor man Goarly would 
get at least a hundred pounds. It must be own- 
ed, however, that at this time slie had heard 
nothing of Lord Rufford's commission to her 
husband. In the evening Larry came in, and 
was at once told the terrible news. "Larry," 
said Kate, " Mary is going away for a month." 



48 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



"Where are you going, Mary?" asked the 
lover, eagerly. 

" To Lady Ushant's, Mr. Twentyman." 

"For a month!" 

"She has asked me for a month," said Mary. 

"It's a regular fool's errand," said Mrs. Mas- 
ters. "It's not done with my consent, Mr. 
Twentyman. I don't think she ought to stir 
from home till things are more settled." 

' ' They can be settled this moment, as far as I 
am concerned," said Larry, standing up. 

"There now," said Mrs. Masters. At this 
time Mr. Masters was not in the room. "If 
you can make it straight with Mr. Twentyman, 
I won't say a word against your going away for 
a month." 

"Mamma, j-ou shouldn't!" exclaimed Mary. 

"I hate such nonsense! Mr. Twentyman is 
behaving honest and genteel. What more would 
you have ? Give him an answer, like a sensible 
girl." 

"I have given him an answer, and I can not 
say any thing more," said Mary, as she left the 
room. 



CHAPTER XIX. 

""WHO VALUED THE GEESE?" 

Before the time had come for the visit to 
Ruiford Hall, Mr. Gotobed had called upon Beai'- 
side, the attorney, and had learned as much as 
Mr. Bearside chose to tell him of the facts of the 
case. This took place on the Saturday morn- 
ing, and the interview was, on the whole, satis- 
factory to the Senator. But then, having a the- 
ory of his own in his head, and being fond of 
ventilating his own theories, he explained thor- 
oughly to the man the story which he wished to 
hear before the man was called upon to tell his 
story. Mr. Bearside, of course, told it accord- 
ingly. Goarly was a very poor man, and very 
ignorant ; was perhaps not altogether so good a 
member of society as he might have been ; but 
no doubt he had a strong case against the lord. 
The lord, so said Mr. Bearside, had fallen into a 
way of paying a certain recompense in certain 
cases for crops damaged by game ; and having 
in this way laid down a rule for himself, did not 
choose to have that rule disturbed. 

"Just feudalism !" said the indignant Senator. 

"No better nor yet no worse than that, sir," 
said the attorney, who did not in the least know 
what feudalism was. 

" The strong hand, backed by the strong rank 
and the strong purse, determined to have its own 
way 1" continued the Senator. 

"A most determined man is his lordship," 
said the attorney. 

Then the Senator expressed his hope that 
Mr. Bearside would be able to see the poor man 
through it ; and Mr. Bearside explained to the 
Senator that the poor man was a very poor man 
indeed, who had been so unfortunate with his 
land that he was hardly able to provide bread 
for himself and his children. He went so far as 
to insinuate that lie was taking up this matter 
himself solely on the score of charity; adding 
that as he could not, of course, afford to be mon- 
ey out of pocket for expenses of witnesses, etc., 
he did not quite see how he was to proceed. 
Then the Senator made certain promises. He 



was, he said, going back to London in the course 
of next week, but he did not mind making him- 
self responsible to the extent of fifty dollars, if 
the thing were carried on, bond fide, to a con- 
clusion. 

Mr. Bearside declared that it would of course 
be bond fide, and asked the Senator for his ad- 
dress. Would Mr. Gotobed object to putting 
his name to a little docket certifying to the 
amount promised. Mr. Gotobed gave an ad- 
dress, but thought that in such a matter as that 
his word might be trusted. If it were not trust- 
ed, then the offer might fall to the ground. M.V. 
Bearside was profuse in his apologies, and de- 
clared that the gentleman's word was as good as 
his bond. 

Mr. Gotobed made no secret of his doings. 
Perhaps he had a feeling that he could not justi- 
fy himself in so strange a proceeding without ab- 
solute candoi". He saw Mr. Mainwaring in the 
street as he left Bearside's office, and told him all 
about it. " I just want, sir, to see what'll come 
of it." 

"You'll lose your fifty dollars, Mr. Gotobed, 
and only cause a little vexation to a high-spirit- 
ed young nobleman." 

" Very likely, sir. But neither the loss of my 
dollars nor Lord RufFord's slight vexation will in 
the least disturb my rest. I'm not a rich man, 
sir, but I should like to watch the way in which 
such a question will be tried and brought to a 
conclusion in this aristocratic country. I don't 
quite know what your laws may be, Mr. Main- 
waring. " 

"Just the same as your own, Mr. Gotobed, I 
take it." 

" We have no game-laws, sir. As I was say- 
ing, I don't understand your laws, but justice is 
the same everywhere. If this great lord's game 
have eaten up the poor man's wheat, the great 
lord ought to pay for it." 

"The, owners of game pay for the damage 
they do three times over," said the parson, who 
was very strongly on that side of the question. 
"Do you think that such men as Goarly would 
be better off if the gentry were never to come 
into the country at all?" 

"Perhaps, Mr. Mainwaring, I may think that 
there would be no Goarlys if there were no Ruf- 
fords. That, however, is a great question, which 
can not be argued on this case. All we can 
hope here is that one poor man may have an act 
of justice done him, though in seeking for it he 
has to struggle against so wealthy a magnate as 
Lord Rufford. " 

"What I hope is that he may be found out," 
replied Mr. Mainwaring, with equal enthusiasm, 
" and then he will be in Rufford Jail before long. 
That's the justice I look for. Who do you think 
put down the poison in Dillsborough Wood ?" 

" How was it that the poor woman lost all her 
geese ?" asked the Senator. 

"She was paid for a great many more than 
she lost, Mr. Gotobed." 

"That doesn't touch upon the injustice of the 
proceeding. Who assessed the loss, sir ? Who 
valued the geese ? Am I to keep a pet tiger in 
my garden, and give you a couple of dollars 
when he destroys your pet dog, and think my- 
self justified because dogs, as a rule, are not 
worth more than two dollars each ? Slie has a 
right to her own geese on her own ground." 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



49 



"And Lord RufFord, sir, as I take it," said 
Runciman, who had been allowed to come up 
and hear the end of the conversation, "has a 
right to his own foxes in his own coverts." 

" Yes, if he could keep them there, my friend. 
But as it is the nature of foxes to wander away 
and to be thieves, he has no such right." 

"Of course, sir, begging your pardon," said 
Runciman, "I was speaking of England." 
Runciman had heard of the Senator Gotobed, as 
indeed had all Dillsborough by this time. 

"And I am speaking of justice all the world 
over," said the Senator, slapping his hand upon 
his thigh. "But I only want to see. It may 
be that England is a country in which a poor 
man should not attempt to hold a few acres of 
land." 

On that night the Dillsborough Club met as 
usual, and, as a matter of course, Goarly and tlie 
American Senator were the subjects chiefly dis- 
cussed. Every body in the room knew — or 
thought that he knew — that Goarly was a cheat- 
ing, fraudulent knave, and that Lord Ruffbrd was, 
at any rate in this case, acting properly. They 
all understood the old goose, and were aware, 
neai-ly to a bushel, of the amount of wheat whicli 
the man had sold oif those two fields. Runci- 
man knew that the interest on the mortgage had 
been paid, and could only have been paid out of 
tiie produce ; and Larry Twentyman knew that 
if Goarly took his seven shillings and sixpence 
an acre he would be better oif than if the wood 
had not been there. But yet, among them all, 
they didn't quite see how they were to confute 
the Senator's logic. They could not answer it 
satisfactorily, even among themselves ; but they 
felt that if Goarly could be detected in some of- 
fense, that would confute the Senator. Among 
themselves it was sufficient to repeat the well- 
known fact that Goarly was a rascal ; but with 
reference to this aggravating, interfering, and 
most obnoxious American, it would be necessary 
to prove it. 

" His lordship has put it into Masters's hands, 
I'm told," said the doctor. At this time neither 
the attorney nor Larry Twentyman was in the 
room. 

" He couldn't have done better," said Runci- 
man, speaking from behind a long clay pipe. 

"All the same, he was nibbling at Goarly," 
said Fred Botsey. 

" I don't know that be was nibbling at Goar- 
ly at all, Mr. Botsey," said the landlord. "Goar- 
ly came to him, and Goarly was refused. What 
more would you have ?" 

"It's all one to me," said Botsey, "only I do 
think that in a sporting county like this the 
place ought to be made too hot to hold a black- 
guard like that. If he comes out at me with 
his gun, I'll ride over him. And I wouldn't 
mind riding over that American too." 

" That's just what would suit Goarly 's book," 
said the doctor. 

' ' Exactly what Goarly would like, " said Hai-- 
ry Stubbings. 

Then Mr. Masters and Larry entered the room. 
On that evening two things had occurred to the 
attorney. Nickem had returned, and had asked 
for and received an additional week's leave of 
absence. He had declined to explain accurately 
what he was doing, but gave the attorney to un- 
derstand that he thought that he was on the way 



to the bottom of tiie whole thing. Tlien, after 
Nickem had left him, Mr. Masters had a letter 
of instructions from Lord RufFord's steward. 
When he received it, and found that his paid 
services had been absolutely employed on behalf 
of his lordship, he almost regretted the encour- 
agement he had given to Nickem. In the first 
place, he might want Nickem. And then he felt 
that in his present position he ought not to be a 
party to any thing underhand. But Nickem was 
gone, and he was obliged to console himself by 
thinking that Nickem was, at any rate, employ- 
ing his intellect on the right side. When he left 
his house with Larry Twentyman he had told his 
wife nothing about Lord RufFord. Up to this 
time he and his wife had not as yet reconciled 
their difference, and poor Mary was still living in 
misery. Larry, though he had called for the at- 
torney, had not sat down in the parlor, and had 
barely spoken to Mary. "For gracious sake, 
Mr. Twentyman, don't let him stay in that place 
there half the night," said Mrs. Masters. " It 
ain't fit for a father of a family." 

"Father never does stay half the niglit," said 
Kate, who took more liberties in that house than 
any one else. 

' ' Hold your tongue, miss ! I don't know 
whether it wouldn't be better for you, Mr. Twen- 
tyman, if you were not there so often yourself." 

Poor Larry felt tliis to be hard. He was not 
even engaged as yet, and, as far as he could see, 
was not on the way to be engaged. In such con- 
dition, surely, his possible mother-in-law could 
have no right to interfere with him. He conde- 
scended to make no reply, but crossed the pas- 
sage and carried the attorney off with him. 

" You've heard what that American gentleman 
has been about, Mr. Masters ?" asked the land- 
lord. 

"I'm told he's been with Bearside." 

"And has offered to pay his bill for him if he'll 
carry on the business for Goarly. Who ever 
heard the like of that?" 

" What sort of a man is be?" asked the doctor. 

"A great man in his own country, every body 
says," answered Runciman. "I wish he'd staid 
there. He comes over here and thinks he un- 
derstands every thing, just as though he had lived 
here all his life. Did you say gin cold, Larry — 
and rum for you, Mr. Masters ?" Then tlie 
landlord gave the orders to the girl who had an- 
swered the bell. 

"But they say he's actually going to Lord 
RufFord's," said young Botsey, who would have 
given one of his fingers to be asked to the lord's 
house. 

"They are all going from Bragton," said 
Runciman. 

"The young squire is going to ride one of my 
horses," said Harry Stubbings. 

" That'll be an easy three pounds in your 
pockets, Harry," said the doctor. In answer to 
which Harry remarked that he took all that as it 
came, the heavies and lights together ; and that 
there was not much change to be got out of three 
sovereigns when some gentlemen had had a horse 
out for the day — particularly when a gentleman 
didn't pay, perhaps, for twelve months. 

"The whole party is going," continued the 
landlord. " How he is to have the cheek to go 
into his lordship's house after what he is doing 
is more than I can understand." 



50 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



"What business is it of his?" said Larry, an- 
grily. " That's what I want to know. What 'd 
he think if we went and interfered over there ? 
I shouldn't be surprised if he got a little rough 
usage before he's out of the county. I'm told 
he came across , Bean when he was ferreting 
about the other day, and that Bean gave him 
quite as good as he brought." 

"I say he's a spy," said Ribbs, the butcher, 
from his seat on the sofa. " I hates a spy." 

Soon after that, Mr. Masters left the room, and 
Larry Twentyman followed him. There was 
something almost ridiculous in the way the young 
man would follow the attorney about on these 
Saturday evenings — as though he could make 
love to the girl by talking to the father. But 
on this occasion he had something special to say. 
" So Mary's going to Cheltenham, Mr. Masters." 

"Yes, she is. You don't see any objection 
to that, I hope?" 

" Not in the least, Mr. Masters. I wish she 
might go anywhere to enjoy herself. And, from 
all I've heard, Lady Ushant is a very good sort 
of lady." 

"A very good sort of lady. She won't do 
Mary any harm, Twentyman." 

"I don't suppose she will. But there's one 
thing I should like to know. Why shouldn't she 
tell me, before she goes, that she'll have me ?" 

"I wish she would, with all my heart." 

"And Mrs. Masters is all on my side." 

"Quite so." 

" And the girls have always been my friends." 

" I think we are all your friends, Twentyman. 
I'm sure Mary is. But that isn't marrying — is 
it?" 

"If you would speak to her, Mr. Masters." 

"What would you have me say? I couldn't 
bid my girl to have one man or another. I 
could only tell her what I think, and that she 
knows already." 

" If you were to say that you wished it ! She 
thinks so much about you." 

"I couldn't tell her that I wished it in a man- 
ner that would drive her into it. Of course, it 
would be a very good match. But I have only 
to think of her happiness, and I must leave her 
to judge what will make her happy." 

"I should like to have it fixed some way be- 
fore she starts," said Larry, in an altered tone. 

"Of course, you are your own master, Twen- 
tyman. And you have behaved very well." 

" This is a kind of thing that a man can't 
stand," said the young farmer, sulkily. "Good- 
night, Mr. Masters." 

Then he walked off home to Chowton Farm 
meditating on his own condition, and trying to 
make up his mind to leave the scornful girl and 
become a free man. But he couldn't do it. He 
couldn't even quite make up his mind that he 
would try to do it. There was a bitterness with- 
in, as he thought of permanent fixed failure, 
which he could not digest. There was a crav- 
ing in his heart which he did not himself quite 
understand, but which made him think that the 
world would be unfit to be lived in if he were 
to be altogether separated from Mary Masters. 
He couldn't separate himself from her. It was 
all very well thinking of it, talking of it, threat- 
ening it ; but in truth he couldn't do it. There 
might, of course, be an emergency in which he 
must do it. She might declare that she loved 



some one else, and she might many that other 
person. In that event, he saw no other alterna- 
tive but — as he expressed it to himself — " to run 
a mucker." Whether the "mucker" should be 
run against Mary, or against the fortunate lover, 
or against himself, he did not at present resolve. 
But he did resolve, as he reached his own 
hall-door, that he would make one more passion- 
ate appeal to Mary herself before she started for 
Cheltenham, and that he would not make it out 
on a public path, or in the Masters family par- 
lor before all the Masters family ; but that he 
would have her secluded, by himself, so that he 
might speak out all that was in him, to the best 
of his ability. 



CHAPTER XX. 

THERE AEE CONVENANCES. 

Before the Monday came, the party to Ruf- 
ford Hall had become quite a settled thing, and 
had been very much discussed. On the Satur- 
day the Senator had been driven to the meet, a 
distance of about ten miles, on purpose that he 
might see Lord Rufford and explain his views 
about Goarly. Lord Rufford had bowed and 
stared and laughed, and had then told the Sena- 
tor that he thought he would "find himself in 
the wrong box." "That's quite possible, my 
lord. I guess it won't be the first time I've 
been in the wrong box, my lord. Sometimes I 
do get right. But I thought I would not enter 
your lordship's house as a guest M'ithout telling 
you what I was doing." Then Lord Rufford 
assured him that this little affair about Goarly 
would make no difference in that respect. Mr. 
Gotobed again scrutinized the hounds and Tony 
Tuppett, laughed in his sleeve because a fox 
wasn't found in the first quarter of an hour, and 
after that was driven back to Bragton. 

The Sunday was a day of preparation for the 
Trefoils. Of course they didn't go to church. 
Arabella, indeed, was never up in time for church, 
and Lady Augustus only went when her going 
would be duly registered among fashionable peo- 
ple. Mr. Gotobed laughed when he was invited, 
and asked whether any body was ever known to 
go to church two Sundays running at Bragton. 
"People have been known to refuse with less 
acrimony," said Morton. "I always speak my 
mind, sir, " replied the Senator. Poor John Mor- 
ton, therefore, went to his parish church alone. 

There were many things to be considered by 
the Trefoils. There was the question of dress. 
If any good was to be done by Arabella at Ruf- 
ford, it must be done with great dispatch. There 
would be the dinner on Monday, the hunting on 
Tuesday, the ball, and then the interesting mo- 
ment of departure. No girl could make bet- 
ter use of her time ; hut, then, think of her diffi- 
culties ! All that she did would have to be done 
under the very eyes of the man to whom she was 
engaged, and to .whom she wished to remain 
engaged — unless, as she said to herself, she 
could "pull off the other event." A great deal 
must depend on appearance. As she and her 
mother were out on a lengthened cruise among 
long-suffering acquaintances, going to the De 
Browne's after the Gores, and the Smijthes after 
the De Brownes, with as many holes to run to 
afterward as a four-year-old fox — though with 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



51 



the same probability of finding them, stopped — 
of course she had her wardrobe with her. To 
see her night after night, one would think that 
it was supplied with all that wealth would give. 
But there were deficiencies and there were make- 
shifts, very well known to herself and well un- 
derstood by her maid. She could generally sup- 
ply herself with gloves by bets, as to Avhich she 
had never any scruple in taking either what she 
did win or did not, and in dunning any who 
might. chance to be defaulters. On occasions, 
too, when not afraid of the by-standers, she 
would venture on a hat ; and though there was 
difficulty as to the payment, not being able to 
give her number, as she did with gloves, so that 
the tradesmen could send the article, still she 
would manage to get the hat — and the trim- 
mings. It was said of her that she once offered 
to lay an Ulster to a seal-skin jacket, but that the 
young man had coolly said that a seal-skin jacket 
was beyond a joke, and had asked her whether 
she was ready to ' ' put down " her Ulster. These 
were little difficulties from which she usually 
knew how to extricate herself without embar- 
rassment ; but she had not expected to have to 
marshal her forces against such an enemy as Lord 
Ruffbrd, or to sit down for the besieging of such a 
city this campaign. There were little things which 
required to be done, and the lady's maid certainly 
had not time to go to church on Sunday. 

But there were other things which troubled 
her even more than her clothes. She did not 
much like Bragton, and at Bragton, in his own 
house, she did not very much like her proposed 
husband. At Washington he had been some- 
body. She had met him everywhere then, and 
had heard him much talked about. At Wash- 
ington he had been a popular man, and had had 
the reputation of being a rich man also ; but 
here, in the country in England, he seemed to 
her to fall off' in importance, and he certainly 
had not made himself pleasant. Whether any 
man could be pleasant to her in the retirement 
of a country house — any man whom she should 
have no interest in running down — she did not 
ask herself. An engagement to her must under 
any circumstances be a humdrum thing — to be 
brightened only by wealth. But here she saw no 
signs of wealth. Nevertheless, she was not pre- 
pared to shove away the plank from below her 
feet till she was sure that she had a more sub- 
stantial board on which to step. Her mother, 
who perhaps did not see in the character of Mor- 
ton all the charms which she would wish to find 
in a son-in-law, was anxious to shake off' the 
Bragton alliance ; but Arabella, as she said so 
often both to herself and to her mother, was sick 
of the dust of the battle and conscious of fading 
strength. She would make this one more at- 
tempt, but must make it with great care. When 
last in town, this young lord had whispered a 
word or two to her, which then had set her hop- 
ing for a couple of days ; and now, when chance 
had brought her into his neighborhood, he had 
gone out of his way — very much out of his way — 
to renew his acquaintance with her. She would 
be mad not to give herself the chance ; but yet 
she could not afford to let the plank go from un- 
der her feet. 

But the part she had to play was one which 
even she felt to be almost beyond her powers. 
She could perceive that Morton was beginning 



to be jealous, and that his jealousy was not of 
that nature which strengthens a tie, but which is 
apt to break it altogether. His jealousy, if fair- 
ly aroused, would not be appeased by a final re- 
turn to himself. She had already given him oc- 
casion to declare himself off, and if thoroughly 
angered he would no doubt use it. Day by day, 
and almost hour by hour, he was becoming more 
sombre and hard, and she was well aware that 
there was reason for it. It did not suit her to 
walk about alone with him through the shrub- 
beries. It did not suit her to be seen with his 
arm round her waist. Of course, the people of 
Bragton would talk of the engagement, but she 
would prefer that they should talk of it with 
doubt. Even her own maid had declared to 
Mrs. Hopkins that she did not know whether 
there was or was not an engagement — her own 
maid being at the time almost in her confidence. 
Very few of the comforts of a lover had been 
vouchsafed to John Morton during this sojourn 
at Bragton, and very little had been done in ac- 
cordance with his wishes. Even this visit to 
Ruffbrd, as she well knew, was being made in 
opposition to him. She hoped that her lover 
would not attempt to ride to hounds on the Tues- 
day, so that she might be near the lord unseen 
by him, and that he would leave Ruff'ord on the 
Wednesday before herself and her mother. At 
the ball, of course, she could dance with Lord 
Ruffbrd, and could keep her eye on her lover at 
the same time. 

She hardly saw him on the Sunday afternoon, 
and she was again closeted on the Monday till 
lunch. They were to start at four, and there 
would not be much more than time after lunch 
for her to put on her traveling gear. Then, as 
they all felt, there was a difficulty about the car- 
riages. Who was to go with whom ? Arabella, 
after lunch, took the bull by the horns. " I sup- 
pose," she said, as Morton followed her out into 
the hall, "mamma and I had better go in the 
phaeton." 

"I was thinking that Lady Augustus might 
consent to travel with Mr. Gotobed, and that you 
and I might have the phaeton." 

"Of course it would be very pleasant," she 
answered,. smiling. 

" Then why not let it be so ?" 

"There are convenances." 

" How would it be if you and I were going 
without any body else? Do you mean to say 
that in that case we might not sit in the same 
carriage ?" 

"I mean to say that in that case I should not 
go at all. It isn't done in England. You have 
been in the States so long that you forget all our 
old-fashioned ways." 

"I do think that is nonsense." She only 
smiled, and shook her head. "Then the Sena- 
tor shall go in the phaeton, and I will go with 
you and your mother. " 

"Yes, and quarrel with mamma all the time, 
as you always do. Let me have it my own way 
this time." 

"Upon my word, I believe you are ashamed 
of me," he said, leaning back upon the hall table. 
He had shut the dining-room door, and she was 
standing close to him. 

" What nonsense!" 

"You have only got to say so, Arabella, and 
let there be an end of it all. " 



52 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



" If you wish it, Mr. Morton." 

" You know I don't wish it. You know I am 
ready to marry you to-morrow." 

" You have made ever so many difRculties, as 
far as I can understand." 

"You have unreasonable people acting for 
you, Arabella, and of course I don't mean to give 
way to them. " 

"Pray don't talk to me about money. I 
knoAV nothing about it, and have taken no part 
in the matter. I suppose there must be settle- 
ments ?" 

" Of course there must." 

"And I can only do what other people tell 
me. You, at any rate, have something to do 
with it all, and I have absolutely nothing." 

"That is no reason you shouldn't go in the 
same carriage with me to RufFord." 

"Are you coming back to that — ^just like a big 
child ? Do let us consider that as settled. I'm 
sure you'll let mamma and me have the use of 
the phaeton." Of course the little contest was 
ended in the manner proposed by Arabella. 

" I do think," said Arabella, when she and her 
mother were seated in the carriage, "that we 
have treated him very badly." 

"Quite as well as he deserves! What a 
house to bring us to — and what people! Did 
you ever come across such an old woman before ? 
And she has him completely under her thumb. 
Are you prepared to live with that harridan ?" 

" You may let me alone, mamma, for all that. 
She won't be in my way after I'm married, I can 
tell j'ou." 

" You'll have something to do, then." 

"I ain't a bit afraid of her." 

"And to ask us to meet such people as this 
American ! " 

"He's going back to Washington, and it suit- 
ed him to have him. I don't quarrel with him 
for that. I wish I were married to him, and 
back in the States." 

"You do?" 

"I do." 

"You have given it all up about Lord Eufford, 
then ?" 

' ' No ; that's just where it is. I haven't given 
it up, and I still see trouble upon trouble before 
me. But I know how it will be. He doesn't 
mean any thing. He's only amusing himself." 

"If he'd once say the word, he couldn't get 
back again. The duke would interfere then." 

"What would he care for the duke? The 
duke is no more than any body else nowadays. 
I shall just fall to the ground between two stools. 
I know it as well as if it were done already. 
And then I shall have to begin again ! If it 
comes to that, I shall do something terrible ; I 
know I shall." Then they turned in at Lord 
Rufford's gates ; and as they were driven up be- 
neath the oaks, through the gloom, both mother 
and daughter thought how charfhing it would be 
to be the mistress of such a park. 



CHAPTER XXI. 

THE FIKST EVENING AT RUFFOED HALL. 

The plmeton arrived the first, the driver hav- 
ing been especially told by Arabella that he need 
not delay on the road for the other carriage. 



She had calculated that she might make her en- 
trance with better effect alone with her mother 
than in company with Morton and the Senator. 
It would have been worth the while of any one 
who had witnessed her troubles on cthat morning 
to watch the bland serenity and happy ease witli 
which she entered the room. Her mother was 
fond of a prominent place, but was quite content- 
ed on this occasion to play a second fiddle for 
her daughter. She had seen at a glance that 
RufFord Hall was a delightful house. Oh, if it 
might become the home of her child and her 
grandchildren, and possibly a retreat for herself! 
Arabella was certainly very handsome at this 
moment. Never did she look better than when 
got up with care for traveling, especially as seen 
by an evening light. Her slow motions were 
adapted to heavy wraps ; and however she might 
procure her large seal-skin jacket, she graced it 
well when she had it. Lord Rufibrd came to the 
door to meet them, and immediately introduced 
them to his sister. There were six or seven peo- 
ple in the room, mostly ladies, and tea was offer- 
ed to the new-comers. Lady Penwether was 
largely made, like her brother, but was a lan- 
guidly lovely woman, not altogether unlike Ara- 
bella herself in her figure and movements, but 
with a more expressive face, with less color, and 
much more positive assurance of high breeding. 
Lady Penwether was said to be haughty ; but it 
was admitted by all people that when Lady Pen- 
wether had said a thing or had done a thing, it 
might be taken for granted that the way in which 
she had done or said that thing was the right 
way. The only other gentleman there was Ma- 
jor Caneback, who had just come in from hunt- 
ing w-ith some distant pack, and who had been 
brought into the room by Lord Rufford, that he 
might give some account of the doings of the 
day. According to Caneback, they had been 
talking in the Brake country about nothing but 
Goarly and the enormities which had been per- 
petrated in the U. R. U. 

"By-the-bye, Miss Trefoil," said Lord Ruf- 
ford, "what have you done with your Senator?" 

"He's on the road. Lord RufFord, examining 
English institutions as he comes along. He'll be 
here by midnight. " 

" Imagine the man coming to me and telling 
me that he was a friend of Goarly 's. I rather 
liked him for it. There was a thorough pluck 
about it. They say he's going to find all the 
money." 

" I thought Mr. Scrobby was to do that," said 
Lady Penwether. 

"Mr. Scrobby will not have the slightest ob- 
jection to have that part of the work done for 
him. If all we hear is true, Miss Trefoil's Sen- 
ator may have to defend both Scrobby and Goar- 

"My Senator, as you call him, Avill be quite 
up to the occasion." 

"You knew him in America, Miss Trefoil?" 
asked Lady Penwether. 

"Oh yes. We used to meet him and Mrs. 
Gotobed everywhere. But we didn't exactly 
bring him over with us — though our party down 
to Bragton was made up in Washington," she 
added, feeling that she might in this way account 
in some degree for her own presence in Jolni 
Morton's house. "It was mamma and Mr. 
Morton arranged it all." 



THE AilERICAN SENATOR. 



53 



"Oh, my dear, it was you and the Senator," 
said Lady Augustus, ready for the occasion. 

" Miss' Trefoil," said the lord, " let us have it 
all out at once. Are you taking Goarly's part ?" 

"Taking Goarly's part !" ejaculated the majoi-. 

Arabella affected to give a little start, as 
though frightened by the major's enthusiasm. 
"For Heaven's sake, let us know our foes," con- 
tinued Lord RufFord. "You see the effect such 
an announcement has had upon Major Caneback. 
Have you made an appointment before dawn with 
Mr. Scrobby under the elms ? Now I look at 
you, I believe in my heart you're a Goarlyite — 
only without the Senator's courage to tell me the 
truth beforehand." 

"I really am very much obliged to Goarly," 
said Arabella, "because it is so nice to have 
something to talk about. " 

"That's just what I think. Miss Trefoil," de- 
clared a young lady. Miss Penge, who was a 
friend of Lady Penwether. "The gentlemen 
have so much to say about hunting which nobody 
can understand! But now this delightful man 
has scattered poison all over the country, there is 
something that comes home to our understand- 
ing. I declare myself a Goarlyite at once, Lord 
Rufford, and shall put myself under the Sena- 
tor's leading directly he comes." 

During all this time not a word had been said 
of John Morton, the master of Bragton, the man 
to whose party these new-comei's belonged. 
Lady Augustus and Arabella clearly understood 
that John Morton was only a peg on which the 
invitation to them had been hung. The feeling 
that it was so grew upon them with every word 
that was spoken, and also the conviction that 
he must be treated like a peg at Rufford. The 
sight of the hangings of the room, so different 
from the old-fashioned dingy curtains at Bragton, 
the brilliancy of the mirrors, all the decorations 
of the place, the very blaze from the big grate, 
forced upon the girl's feelings a conviction that 
this was her proper sphere. Here she was, be- 
ing made much of as a new-comer, and here, if 
possible, she must remain. Every thing smiled 
on her with gilded dimples, and these were the 
smiles she valued. As the softness of the cush- 
ions sunk into her heart, and mellow nothing- 
nesses from well-trained voices greeted her ears, 
and the air of wealth and idleness floated about 
her cheeks, her imagination rose within her, and 
assured her that she could secure something bet- 
ter than Bragton. The cautions with which she 
had armed herself faded away. This, this was 
the kind of thing for which she had been striving. 
As a girl of spirit, was it not worth her while to 
make another effort, even though there might 
be danger? "Aut Caesar aut nihil." She knew 
nothing about Caesar, but she had declared to 
herself that she would be Lady Rufford before 
the tardy wheels which brought the Senator and 
Mr. Morton had stopped at the door. The fresh 
party was, of course, brought into the drawing- 
room, and tea was offered ; but Arabella hardly 
spoke to them, and Lady Augustus did not speak 
to them at all, and they were shown up to their 
bedrooms with very little preliminary conversa- 
tion. 

It was very hard to put Mr. Gotobed down ; 
or it might be more correctly said — as there was 
no effort to put him down — that it was not often 
that he failed in coming to the surface. He took 



Lady Penwether out to dinner, and was soon ex- 
plaining to her that this little experiment of his 
in regard to Goarly was being tried simply with 
the view of examining the institutions of the 
country. 

"We don't mind it from you," said Lady Pen- 
wether, "because you are in a certain degree a 
foreigner." The Senator declared himself flat- 
tered by being regarded as a foreigner only "in 
a certain degree." "Yon see you speak our 
language, Mr. Gotobed, and we can't help think- 
ing you are half English. " 

"We are two-thirds English, my lady," said 
Mr. Gotobed; "but, then, we think the other 
third is an improvement." 

' ' Very likely. " 

"We have nothing so nice as this:" as he 
spoke, he waved his right hand to the different 
corners of the room. "Such a dinner-table as 
I am sitting down to now couldn't be fixed in all 
the United States, though a man might spend 
three times as many dollars on it as his lordship 
does." 

" That is very often done, I should think." 

"But, then, as we have nothing so well done 
as a house like this, so, also, have we nothing so 
ill done as the houses of your poor people." 

"Wages are higher with you, Mr. Gotobed." 

"And public spirit, and the philanthropy of the 
age, and the enlightenment of the people, and the 
institutions of the country all round. They are 
all higher." 

" Canvas-back ducks," said the major, who was 
sitting two or three oft' on the other side. 

" Yes, sir, we have canvas-back ducks." 

" Make up for a great many faults," said the 
major. 

"Of course, sir, when a man's stomach rises 
above his intelligence, he'll have to argue accords 
ingly," said the Senator. 

" Caneback, what are you going to ride to-mor- 
row ?" asked the lord, who saw the necessity of 
changing the conversation, so far, at least, as the 
major was concerned. 

" Jemima — mare of Purefoy's ; have my neck 
broken, they tell me. " 

"It's not improbable," said Sir John Purefoy, 
who was sitting at Lady Penwether 's left hand. 
"Nobody ever could rideher yet." 

"I was thinking of asking you to let Miss Tre- 
foil try her," said Lord Rufford. Arabella was 
sitting between Sir John Purefoy and the ma- 
jor. 

" Miss Trefoil is quite welcome," said Sir John. 
"It isn't a bad idea. Perhaps she may carry a 
lady, because she has never been tried. I know 
that she objects strongly to carry a man." 

" My dear," said Lady Augustus, "you sha'n't 
do any thing of the kind." And Lady Augus- 
tus pretended to be frightened. 

"Mamma, you don't suppose Lord Rufford 
wants to kill me at once ?" 

"You shall either ride her. Miss Trefoil, or my 
little hoi-se Jack. But I warn you beforehand 
that as Jack is the easiest-ridden horse in the 
country, and can scramble over any thing, and 
never came down in his life, you won't get any 
honor and glory ; but on Jemima you might 
make a character that would stick to you till 
your dying day." 

"But if I ride Jemima, that dying day might 
be to-morrow. I think I'll take Jack, Lord Ruf- 



54 



THE AMEKICAN SENATOR. 



ford, and let Major Caneback have the honor. 
Is Jack fast ?" 

In this way the anger arising between the 
Senator and the major was assuaged. The Sen- 
ator still held his own, and, before the question 
was settled between Jack and Jemima, had told 
the company that no Englishman knew how to 
ride, and that the only seat fit for a man on horse- 
back was that suited for the pacing horses of 
California and Mexico. Then he assured Sir 
John Purefoy that eighty miles a day was no 
great journey for a pacing horse, with a man of 
fourteen stone, and a saddle and accoutrements 
weighing four more. The major's countenance, 
when the Senator declared that no Enghshman 
could ride, was a sight worth seeing. 

That evening, even in the drawing-room, the 
conversation was chiefly about horses and hunt- 
ing, and those terrible enemies, Goarly and Scrob- 
by. Lady Penwether and Miss Penge, who didn't 
hunt, were distantly civil to Lady Augustus, of 
whom, of course, a woman so much in the world 
as Lady Penwether knew something. Lady Pen- 
wether had shrugged her shoulders when consult- 
ed as to these special guests, and had expressed a 
hope that Ruff'ord "wasn't going to make a goose 
of himself." But she was fond of her brother ; 
and as both Lady Purefoy and Miss Penge were 
special friends of hers, and as she had also been 
allowed to invite a couple of Godolphin's girls to 
Avhom she wished to be civil, she did as she was 
asked. The girl, she said to Miss Penge that 
evening, was handsome, but penniless and a flirt. 
The mother she declared to be a regular old sol- 
dier. As to Lady Augustus, she was right ; but 
she had, perhaps, failed to read Arabella's char- 
acter correctly. Arabella Trefoil was certainly 
^ not a flirt. In all the horsey conversation 
Arabella joined, and her low, clear, slow voice 
could be heard now and then as though she were 
really animated with the subject. At Bragton 
she had never once spoken as though any mat- 
ter had interested her. During this time Mor- 
ton fell into conversation, flrst with Lady Pure- 
foy, and then with the two Miss Godolphins, and 
afterward, for a few minutes, with Lady Pen- 
wether, who knew that he was a county gentle- 
man, and a respectable member of the diplomat- 
ic profession. But during the whole evening 
his ear was intent on the notes of Arabella's voice ; 
and also, during the whole evening, her eye was 
watching him. She would not lose her chance 
with Lord EufFord for want of any effort on her 
part. If aught were required from her in her 
present task that might be offensive to Mr. Mor- 
ton — any thing that was peremptorily demanded 
for the effort — she would not scruple to offend 
the man. But if it might be done without of- 
fense, so much the bettei'. Once he came across 
the room and said a word to her as she was talk- 
ing to Lord Rufford and the Purefoys. "You 
are really in earnest about riding to-morrow ?" 

"Oh dear, yes. AVhy shouldn't I be in ear- 
nest?" 

"You are coming out yourself, I hope," said 
the lord. 

"1 have no horses here of my own, but I have 
told that man Stubbings to send me something ; 
and as I haven't been at Bragton for the last sev- 
en years, I have nothing proper to wear. I sha'n't 
be called a Goarlyite, I hope, if I appear in trou- 
sers ?" 



" Not unless you have a basket of red herrings 
on your arm," said Lord Rufford. Then Mor- 
ton retired back to the Miss Godolphins, finding 
that he had nothing more to say to Arabella. 

He was very angry, though he hardly knew 
why or with whom. A girl when she is engaged 
is not supposed to talk to no one but her recog- 
nized lover in a mixed party of ladies and gen- 
tlemen, and she is especially absolved from such 
a duty when they chance to meet in the house 
of a comparative stranger. In such a house, 
and among such people, it was natural that the 
talk should be about hunting ; and as the girl 
had accepted the loan of a horse, it was natural 
that she should join in such conversation. She 
had never sat for a moment apart with Lord 
Rufford. It was impossible to say that she had 
flirted with the man ; and yet Morton felt that 
he was neglected, and felt also that he was only 
there because this pleasure -seeking young lord 
had liked to have in his house the handsome girl 
whom he, Morton, intended to marry. He felt 
thoroughly ashamed of being there, as it were, 
in the train of Miss Trefoil. He was almost 
disposed to get up and declare that the girl was 
engaged to marry him. He thought that he 
could put an end to the engagement without 
breaking his heart ; but if the engagement was 
an engagement, he could not submit to treatment 
such as this, either from her or from others. He 
would see her for the last time in the country at 
the ball on the following evening — as, of course, 
he would not be near her during the hunting — 
and then he would make her understand that she 
must be altogether his, or altogether cease to be 
his. And, so resolving, he went to bed, refusing 
to join the gentlemen in the smoking-room. 

"Oh, mamma," Arabella said to her mother 
that evening, "I do so wish I could break my 
arm to-morrow ! " 

"Break your arm, my dear !" 

" Or my leg would be better. I wish I could 
have the courage to chuck myself off, going over 
some gate. If I could be laid up here, now, 
with a broken limb, I really think I could do it." 



CHAPTER XXIL 



JEMIMA. 



As the meet on the next morning was in the 
park, the party at Rufford Hall was able to enjoy 
the luxury of an easy morning, together with the 
pleasures of the field. There was no getting up 
at eight o'clock ; no huriy and scurry to do twen- 
ty miles, and yet be in time ; no necessity for the 
tardy dressers to swallow tlieir breakfasts, while 
their more energetic companions were raving at 
them for compromising the chances of the day by 
their delay. There was a public breakfast down- 
stairs, at which all the hunting farmers of the 
country were to be seen, and some who only pre- 
tended to be hunting farmers on such occasions. 
But upstairs there was a private breakfast for the 
ladies and such of the gentlemen as preferred tea 
to Champagne and cheny brandy. Lord Rufford 
was in and out of both rooms, making himself 
generally agreeable. In the public room there 
was a great deal said about Goarly, to all of which 
the Senator listened with eager ears ; for the 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



Senator preferred the public breakfast, as offer- 
ing another institution to his notice. 

"He'll swing on a gallows afore he's dead," 
said one energetic farmer who was sitting next 
to Mr. Gotobed — a fat man with a round head 
and a bullock's neck, dressed in a black coat, 
with breeches and top-boots. 

John Eunce was not a riding-man. He was 
too heavy and short-winded, too fond of his beer 
and port -wine; but he was a hunting -man all 
over — one who always had a fox in the springs 
at the bottom of his big meadows, one to whom 
it was the very breath of his nostrils to shake 
hands with the hunting gentry, and to be known 
as a stanch friend to the U. R. U. A man did 
not live in the county more respected than John 
Runce, or who was better able to pay his way. 
To his thinking, an animal more injurious than 
Goarly to the best interests of civilization could 
not have been produced by all the evil influences 
of the world combined. 

" Do yovL really think," said the Senator, calm- 
ly, "that a man should be hanged for__ killing 
a fox ?" John Runce, who was not very ready, 
turned round and stared at him. " I haven't 
heard of any other harm that he has done, and 
perhaps he had some provocation for that." 

Words were wanting to Mr. Runce, but not in- 
dignation. He collected together his plate and 
knife and fork, and his two glasses and his lump 
of bread, and, looking the Senator full in the face, 
slowly pushed back his chair, and, carrying his 
provisions with him, toddled off to the other end 
of the room. When he reached a spot where 
place was made for him, he had hardly breath 
left to speak. "Well," he said, "I never — !" 
He sat a minute in silence, shaking his head, and 
continued to shake his head and look round 
upon his neighbors as he devoured his food. 

Upstairs there was a very cozy party, who 
came in by degrees. Lady Penwether was there 
soon after ten, Avith Miss Penge and some of the 
gentlemen, including Morton, who was the only 
man seen in that room in black. Young Hamp- 
ton, who was intimate in the house, made his way 
up there, and Sir John Purefoy joined the party. 
Sir John was a hunting-man who lived in the 
county, and was an old friend of the family. 
Lady Purefoy hunted also, and came in later. 
Ai'abella was the last — not from laziness, but 
aware that in this way the effect might be the 
best. Lord Rufford was in the room when she 
entered it, and of course she addressed herself 
to him. 

"Which is it to be, Lord RufFord — Jack or 
Jemima?" 

" Whichever you like." 

"I am quite indifferent. If you'll put me on 
the mare, I'll ride her — or try." 

"Indeed you won't," said Lady Augustus. 

" Mamma knows nothing about it. Lord Ruf- 
ford. I believe I could do just as well as Major 
Caneback." 

"She never had a lady on her in her life," 
said Sir John. 

"Then it's time for her to begin. But, at any 
rate, I must have some breakfast first." 

Then Lord Rufford brought her a cup of tea, 
and Sir John gave her a cutlet, and she felt her- 
self to be happy. She was quite content with 
her hat ; and though her habit was not exactly 
a hunting-habit, it fitted her well. Morton had 



never before seen her in a riding-dress, and ac- 
knowledged that it became her. He struggled 
to think of something special to say to her, but 
there was nothing. He was not at home on such 
an occasion. His long trousers weighed him 
down, and his ordinary morning-coat cowed him. 
He knew in his heart that she thought nothing 
of him as he was now. But she said a word to 
him, with that usual smile of hers. 

" Of course, Mr. Morton, you are coming with 
us." 

"A little way, perhaps." 

"You'll find that any horse from Stubbings 
can go," said Lord Rufford. "I wish I could 
say as much of all mine." 

"Jack can go, I hope, Lord Rufford ?" Lord 
Rufford nodded his head. "And I shall expect 
you to give me a lead." To this he assented, 
though it was perhaps more than he had intend- 
ed. But on such an occasion it is almost impos- 
sible to refuse such a request. 

At half- past eleven they were all out in the 
park, and Tony was elate as a prince, having 
been regaled with a tumbler of Champagne. But 
the great interest of the immediate moment were 
the frantic eftbrts made by Jemima to get rid of 
her rider. Once or twice Sir John asked the 
major to give it up, but the major swore that the 
mare was a good mare, and only wanted riding. 
She kicked and squealed and backed, and went 
round the park with him at a full gallop. In the 
park there was a rail with a ha-ha ditch, and the 
major rode her at it in a gallop. She went through 
the timber, fell in the ditch, and then was brought 
up again, without giving the man a fall. He at 
once put her back at the same fence, and shei 
took it, almost in her stride, without touching it. 

" Have her like a spaniel before the day's over," 
said the major, who thoroughly enjoyed these lit- 
tle encounters. 

Among the laurels at the bottom of the park a 
fox was found, and then there was a great deal 
of riding about the grounds. All this was much 
enjoyed by the ladies, who were on foot, and by 
the Senator, who wandered about the place alone. 
A gentleman's park is not always the happiest 
place for finding a fox. The animal has usually 
many resources there, and does not like to leave 
it ; and when he does go away, it is not always 
easy to get after him. But ladies, in a carriage 
or on foot, on such occasions have their turn of 
the sport. On this occasion it was nearly one 
before the fox allowed himself to be killed, and 
then he had hardly been outside the park palings. 
There was a good deal of sherry drank before 
the party got away, and hunting- men such as 
Major Caneback began to think that the day was 
to be thrown away. As they started off for Shug- 
borough Springs, the little covert on John Runce's 
farm, which was about four miles from Rufford 
Hall, Sir John asked the major to get on anoth- 
er animal. 

"You've had trouble enough with her for one 
day, and given her enough to do." 

But the major was not of that way of think- 
ing. "Let her have the day's work," said the 
major. "Do her good. Remember what she's 
learned." And so they trotted off to Shugbor- 
ough. 

While they were riding about the park, Mor- 
ton had kept near to Miss Trefoil. Lord Ruf- 
ford, being on his own place and among his own 



56 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



trees, had had cares on his hand, and been un- 
able to devote himself to the young lady. She 
had never for a moment looked up at her lover, 
or tried to escape from him. She had answered 
all his questions, saying, however, very little, and 
had bided her time. The more gracious she was 
to Morton now, the less ground would he have 
for complaining of her when she should leave 
him by-and-by. As they were trotting along the 
road, Lord Rufford came up and apologized. 

" I'm afraid I've been very inattentive. Miss 
Trefoil ; but I dare say you've been in better 
hands." 

"There hasn't been much to do, has there?" 

" Very little. I suppose a man isn't responsi- 
ble for having foxes that won't break. Did you 
see the Senator ? He seemed to think it was all 
right. Did you hear of John Runce?" Then 
he told the story of John Runce, which had been 
told to him. 

"What a fine old fellow! I should forgive 
him his rent." 

" He is much better able to pay me double. 
Your Senator, Mr. Morton, is a very peculiar 
man." 

"He is peculiar," said Morton, "and, I am 
sorry to say, can make himself very disagreeable." 

"We might as \vell trot on, as Shugborough 
is a small place, and a fox always goes away from 
it at once. John Runce knows how to train them 
better than I do." 

Then they made their way on through the 
straggling horses, and John Morton, not wishing 
to seem to be afraid of his rival, remained alone. 

" I wish Caneback had left that mare behind," 
said the lord, as they went. "It isn't the coun- 
tiy for her, and she is going very nastily with 
him. Are you fond of hunting, Miss Trefoil ?" 

"Very fond of it," said Arabella, who had 
been out two or three times in her life. 

" I like a girl to ride to hounds," said his lord- 
ship. " I don't think she ever looks so well." 

Then Arabella determined that, come what 
might, she would ride to hounds. 

At Shugborough Springs a fox was found be- 
fore half the field was up, and he broke almost 
as soon as he was found. 

"Follow me through the hand-gates," said the 
lord, " and from the third field out it's fair riding. 
Let him have his head, and remember he hangs 
a moment as he comes to his fence. You won't 
be left behind unless there's something out of the 
way to stop us." 

Arabella's heart was in her mouth, but she was 
quite resolved. Where he went, she would fol- 
low. As for being left behind, she would not care 
the least for that if he were left behind with her. 
They got well away, having to pause a moment 
while the hounds came up to Tony's horn out of 
the wood. Then there was plain sailing, and 
there were very few before them. 

" He's one of the old sort, my lord," said Tony 
as he pressed on, speaking of the fox. 

"Not too near me, and you'll go like a bird," 
said his lordship. " He's a nice little horse, isn't 
he ? When I'm going to be married, he'll be the 
first present I shall make her." 

"He'd tempt almost any girl," said Arabella. 

It was wonderful how well she went, knowing 
so little about it as she did. The horse was one 
easily ridden, and on plain ground she knew what 
she was about in a saddle. At any rate, she did 



not disgrace herself; and when they had already 
run some three or four miles Lord Ruftbrd had 
nearly tiie best of it, and she had kept with him. 
"You don't know where you are, I suppose," he 
said, when they came to a check. 

"And I don't in the least care, if they'd only 
go on," said she, eagerly. 

' ' We're back at Rufford Park. We've left the 
road nearly a mile to our left, but there we are. 
Those trees are the park." 

"But must we stop there?" 

"That's as the fox may choose to behave. 
We sha'n't stop unless he does." 

Then young Hampton came up, declaring that 
there was the very mischief going on between 
Major Caneback and Jemima. According to 
Hampton's account, the major had been down 
three or four times, but was determined to break 
either the mare's neck or her spirit. He had 
been considerably hurt, so Hampton said, in one 
shoulder, but had insisted on riding on. 

"That's the worst of him," said Lord Rufford. 
" He never knows when to give up." 

Then the hounds were again on the scent, and 
were running very fast toward the park. " That's 
a nasty ditch before us," said the lord. " Come 
down a little to the left. The hounds are head- 
ing that way, and there's a gate. " Young Hamp- 
ton, in the mean time, was going straight for the 
fence. 

"I'm not afraid," said Arabella. 

"Very well. Give him his head, and he'll do 
it." 

Just at that moment there was a noise behind 
them, and the major on Jemima rushed up. She 
was covered with foam, and he with dirt, and her 
sides were sliced with the spur. His hat was 
crushed, and he was riding almost altogether 
with his right hand. He came close to Arabella, 
and she could see the rage in his face as the ani- 
mal rushed on with her head almost between her 
knees. 

" He'll have another full there," said Lord Ruf- 
ford. 

Hampton, who had passed them, was the first 
over the fence, and the other three all took it 
abreast. The major was to the right, the lord to 
the left, and the girl between them. The mare's 
head was perhaps the first. She rushed at the 
fence, made no leap at all, and, of course, went 
headlong into the ditch. The major still stuck 
to her, though two or three voices implored him 
to get off. He afterward declared that he had 
not strength to lift himself out of the saddle. 
The mare lay for a moment, then blundered out, 
rolled over him, jumped on to her feet, and, lung- 
ing out, kicked her rider on the head as he was 
rising. Then she went away, and afterward 
jumped the palings into Rufibrd Park. That 
evening she was shot. 

The man, when kicked, had fallen back close 
under the feet of Miss Trefoil's horse. She 
screamed, and, half fainting, fell also, but fell 
without hurting herself. Lord Rufford of course 
stopped, as did also Mr. Hampton and one of the 
whips, with several others in the course of a min- 
ute or two. The major was senseless ; but they 
who understood what they were looking at were 
afraid that the case was very bad. He was pick- 
ed up and put on a door, and within half an hour 
was on his bed in Rufford Hall. But he did not 
speak for some hours, and before six o'clock that 



THE AMEKICAN SENATOE. 



57 



evening the doctor from RuiFord had declared 
that he had mounted his last horse and ridden 
his last hunt ! 

" Oh, Lord Eufford," said Arabella, " I shall 
never recover that! I heard the horse's feet 
against his head." 

Lord Rufford shuddered, and put his hand 
round her waist to support her. At that time 
they were standing on the ground. 

"Don't mind me, if you can do any good to 
him." But there was nothing that Lord Rufford 
could do, as four men were carrying the major 
on a door. So he and Arabella retui'ned to- 
gether, and when she got off her horse she was 
oniv able to throw herself into his arms. 



CHAPTER XXIIL 



POOR CANEBACK. 



A CLOSEK intimacy will occasionally be cre- 
ated by some accident, some fortuitous circum- 
stance, than weeks of ordinary intercourse will 
produce. Walk down Bond Street in a hail- 
storm of peculiar severity, and you may make a 
friend of the first person you meet ; whereas you 
would be held to have committed an affront were 
you to speak to the same person in the same 
place on a fine day. You shall travel smoothly 
to York with a lady, and she will look as though 
she would call the guard at once were you so 
much as to suggest that it were a fine day ; but 
if you are lucky enough to break a wheel before 
you get to Darlington, she will have told you all 
her history and shared your sherry by the time 
you have reached that town. Arabella was very 
much shocked by the dreadful accident she had 
seen. Her nerves had suffered, tliough it may 
be doubted whether her heart had been affected 
much. But she was quite conscious when she 
reached her room that the poor major's misfort- 
une, happening as it had done just beneath her 
horse's feet, had been a godsend to her. For a 
moment the young lord's arm had been round 
her waist, and her head had been upon his shoul- 
der. And again, when she had slipped from her 
saddle, she had felt his embrace. His fervor to 
her had been simply the uncontrolled expression 
of his feeling at the moment — as one man squeezes 
another tightly by the hand in any crisis of sud- 
den impulse. She knew this ; but she knew also 
that he would probably revert to the intimacy 
which the sudden emotion had created. The 
mutual galvanic shock might be continued at the 
next meeting, and so on. They had seen the 
tragedy together, and it would not fail to be a 
bond of union. As she told the tragedy to her 
mother, she delicately laid aside her hat and whip 
and riding-dress, and then asked whether it was 
not possible that they might prolong their stay at 
Rufford. 

"But the Gores, my dear! I put them off, 
you know, for two days only." 

Then Arabella declared that she did not care 
a straw for the Gores. In such a matter as this, 
what would it signify though they should quan-el 
with a whole generation of Gores? For some 
time she thought that she would not come down 
again that afternoon, or even that evening. It 
might well be that the sight of the accident should 



have made her too ill to appear. She felt con- 
scious that in that moment and in the subsequent 
half-hour she had carried herself well, and that 
there would be an interest about her were she to 
own herself compelled to keep her room. Were 
she now to take to her bed, they could not turn her 
out on the following day. But at last her moth- 
er's counsel put an end to that plan. Time was 
too precious. "I think you might lose more 
than you'd gain," said her mother. 

Both Lord Rufford and his sister were very 
much disturbed as to what they should do on the 
occasion. At half- past six Lord Rufford was 
told that the major had. recovered his senses, but 
that the case was almost hopeless. Of course, he 
saw his guest. 

"I'm all right," said the majoi*. The lord sat 
there by the bedside, holding the man's hand for 
a few moments, and then got up to leave him. 
"No nonsense about putting off," said the ma- 
jor, in a faint voice ; "beastly bosh, all that!" 

But what was to be done? The dozen people 
who were in the house must, of course, sit down 
to dinner. And then all the neighborhood for 
miles round were coming to a ball. It would 
be impossible to send messages to every body. 
And there was the feeling, too, that the man was 
as yet only ill, and that his recovery was possi- 
ble. A ball, with a dead man in one of the bed- 
rooms, would be dreadful. With a dying man 
it was bad enough ; but, then, a dying man is al- 
ways also a living man ! Lord Rufford had al- 
ready telegraphed for a first-class surgeon from 
London, it having been whispered to him that 
perhaps Old Nokes from Rufford might be mis- 
taken. The surgeon could not be there till four 
o'clock in the morning, by which time care would 
have been taken to remove the signs of the ball: 
but if there was reason to send for a London sur- 
geon, then also was there reason for hope ; and 
if there were ground for hope, then the desirability 
of putting oft" the ball was very much reduced. 

"He's at the farthest end of the corridor," the 
lord said to his sister, "and won't hear a sound 
of the music." 

Though the man were to die, why shouldn't 
the people dance? Had the major been dying 
three or four miles off, at the hotel at Ruftbrd, 
there would only have been a few sad looks, a few 
shakings of the head, and the people would have 
danced without any flaw in their gayety. Had 
it been known at Rufford Hall that he was lying 
at that moment in his mortal agony at Aberdeen, 
an exclamation or two — "Poor Caneback!" 
"poor major!' — would have been the extent of 
the wailing, and not the pressure of a lover's hand 
would have been lightened, or the note of a fid- 
dle del.ayed. And nobody in that house really 
cared much for Caneback. He was not a man 
worthy of much care. He was possessed of in- 
finite pluck, and, now that he was dying, could 
bear it well. But he had loved no one particu- 
larly, had been dear to no one in these latter 
days of his life, had been of very little use in the 
world, and had done very little more for society 
than any other horse-trainer ! But, nevertheless, 
it is a bore when a gentleman dies in your house ; 
and a worse bore when he dies from an accident, 
than from an illness for which his own body may 
be supposed to be responsible. Though the gout 
should fly to a man's stomach in your best bed- 
room, the idea never strikes you that your Bur- 



58 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



gimdy has done it ! But here the mare had done 
the mischief. 

Poor Caneback — and poor Lord Ruiford ! The 
major was quite certain that it was all over with 
him. He had broken so many of his bones, and 
had his head so often cracked, that he understood 
his own anatomy pretty well. There he lay, quiet 
and composed, sipping small modicums of bran- 
dy-and-water, and taking his outlook into such 
transtygian world as he had fashioned for him- 
self in his dull imagination. If he had misgiv- 
ings, he showed them to no by-stander. If he 
thought then that he might have done better with 
his energies than devote them to dangerous 
horses, he never said so. His voice was weak, 
but it never quailed ; and the only regret he ex- 
pi'essed was that he had not changed the bit in 
Jemima's mouth. Lord Rufford's position was 
made worse by an expression from Sir John 
Purefoy that the party ought to be put off. Sir 
John was in a measure responsible for what his 
mare had done, and was in a wretched state. 

"If it could possibly affect the poor fellow, I 
would do it," said Lord Rufford. "But it would 
create very great inconvenience and disappoint- 
ment. I have to think of other people." 

"Then I shall send my wife home," said Sir 
John. And Lady Purefoy was sent home. Sir 
John himself, of course, could not leave the house 
while the man was alive. 

Before they all sat down to dinner the major 
was declared to be a little stronger. That set- 
tled the question, and the ball was not put off. 

The ladies came down to dinner in a melan- 
choly guise. They were not fully dressed for the 
evening, and were, of course, inclined to be silent 
and sad. Before Lord Rufford came in, Arabel- 
la managed to get herself on to the sofa next to 
Lady Penwether, and then to undergo some little 
hysterical manifestation, "Oh, Lady Penwether, 
if you had seen it — and heard it ! " 

"I am very glad that I was spared any thing 
so horrible." 

"And the man's face, as he passed me going 
to the leap ! It will haunt me to my dying day ! " 
Then she shivered, and gurgled in her thi'oat, 
and, turning suddenly round, hid her face on the 
elbow of the couch. 

"I've been afraid all the afternoon that she 
would be ill," whispered Lady Augustus to Miss 
Penge. "She is so susceptible !" 

When Lord Rufford came into the room, Ara- 
bella at once got up and accosted him with a 
whisper. Either he took her, or she took him, 
into a distant part of the room, where they con- 
versed apart for five minutes. And he, as he 
told her how things were going and what was 
being done, bent over her and whispered also. 

"What good would it do, you know?" she 
said, with affected intimacy, as he spoke of his 
difficulty about the ball. "One would do any 
thing if one could be of service, but that would 
do nothing." She felt completely that her pres- 
ence at the accident had given her a right to have 
peculiar conversations, and to be consulted about 
eveiy thing. Of course, she was very sorry for 
Major Caneback. But as it had been ordained 
that Major Caneback was to have his head split 
in two by a kick from a horse, and that Lord 
Rufford was to be there to see it, how great had 
been the blessing which had brought her to the 
spot at the same time ! 



Every body there saw the intimacy, and most 
of them understood the way in which it was be- 
ing used. 

"That girl is very clever, Rufford," his sister 
whispered to him before dinner. 

' ' She is very much excited, rather than cler- 
er, just at present," he answered; upon which 
Lady Penwether shook her head. Miss Penge 
whispered to Miss Godolphin that Miss Trefoil 
was making the most of it, and Mr. Morton, who 
had come into the room while the conversation 
apart was going on, had certainly been of the 
same opinion. 

She had seated herself in an arm-chair away 
from the others after that conversation was over, 
and, as she sat there, Morton came up to her. 
He had been so little intimate with the members 
of the party assembled, and had found himself so 
much alone, that he had only lately heard the 
story about Major Caneback, and had now only 
heard it imperfectly. But he did see that an ab- 
solute intimacy had been effected where two days 
before there had only been a slight acquaintance ; 
and he believed that this sudden rush had been 
in some way due to the accident of which he 
had been told. "You know what has happen- 
ed ?" he said. 

"Oh, Mr. Morton, do not talk to me about 
it!" 

"Were you not speaking of it to Lord Ruf- 
ford ?" 

" Of course I was. We were together." 

"Did you see it?" Then she shuddered, put 
her handkerchief up to her eyes, and turned her 
face away. "And yet the ball is to go on?" he 
asked. 

' ' Pi'ay, pray do not dwell on it, unless you 
wish to force me back to my room. When I left 
it, I felt that I was attempting to do too much." 

This might have been all very well, had she not 
been so manifestly able to talk to Lord Rufford 
on the same subject. If there is any young man 
to whom a girl should be able to speak when she 
is in a state of violent emotion, it is the young 
man to whom she is engaged. So, at least, 
thought Mr. John Morton. 

Then dinner was announced, and the dinner 
certainly was sombre enough. A dinner before 
a ball in the country never is very much of a din- 
ner. The ladies know that there is work before 
them, and keep themselves for the greater occa- 
sion. Lady Purefoy had gone, and Lady Pen- 
wether was not very happy in the prospects for 
the evening. Neither Miss Penge nor either of 
the two Miss Godolphins had entertained person- 
al hopes in regard to Lord Rufford, but neverthe- 
less they took badly the great favor shown to Ar- 
abella. Lady Augustus did not get on particu- 
larly well with any of the other ladies, and there 
seemed during the dinner to be an air of unhap- 
piness over them all. They retired as soon as 
it was possible, and then Arabella at once went 
up to her bedroom. 

"Mr. Nokes says he is a little stronger, my 
lord," said the butler, coming into the room. 
Mr. Nokes had gone home, and had returned 
again. 

" He might pull through yet," said Mr. Hamp- 
ton. Lord Rufford shook "his head. Then Mr. 
Gotobed told a wonderful story of an American 
who had had his brains knocked alinost out of 
his head, and had sat in Congress afterward. 



THE AMEEICAN SENATOE. 



59 



" He was the finest horseman I ever saw on a 
horse," said Hampton. 

"A little too much temper," said Captain 
Battersby, who was a very old friend of the 
major. 

" I'd give a good deal that that mare had nev- 
er been brought to my stables," said Lord Ruf- 
ford. "Purefoy will never get over it, and I 
sha'n't forget it in a hurry." 

Sir John at tins time was upstairs with the 
sufferer. Even while drinking their wine, they 
could not keep themselves from the subject, and 
were convivial in a cadaverous fashion. 



CHAPTER XXIV. 



THE BALL. 



The people came, of course, hut not in such 
numbers as had been expected. Many of those 
in Rufford had heard of the accident, and having 
been made acquainted with Nokes's report, staid 
away. Every body was told that supper would 
be on the table at twelve, and that it was gener- 
ally understood that the house was to be cleared 
by two. Nokes seemed to think that the suffer- 
er would live at least till the morrow, and it was 
ascertained to a certainty that the music could 
not affect him. It was agreed among the party 
in the house that the ladies staying there should 
stand up for the first dance or two, as otherwise 
the strangers would be discouraged, and the 
whole thing would be a failure. This request 
■was made by Lady Penwether, because Miss 
Penge had said that she thought it impossible for 
her to dance. Poor Miss Penge, who was gen- 
erally regarded as a brilliant young woman, had 
been a good deal eclipsed by Arabella, and had 
seen the necessity of striking out some line for 
herself. Then Arabella had whispered a few 
words to Lord Rufford, and the lord had whis- 
pered a few words to his sister, and Lady Pen- 
wether had explained what was to be done to the 
ladies around. Lady Augustus nodded her head, 
and said that it was all right. The other ladies 
of course agreed, and partners were selected 
within the house party. Lord Rufford stood up 
with Arabella, and John Morton with Lady Pen- 
wether. Mr. Gotobed selected Miss Penge, and 
Hampton and Battersby the two Miss Godolphins. 
They all took their places with a lugubrious but 
business - like air, as aware that they were sac- 
rificing themselves in the performance of a sad 
duty. But Morton was not allowed to dance in 
the same quadrille with the lady of his affections. 
Lady Penwether explained to him that she and 
her brother had better divide themselves, for the 
good of the company generally, and therefore he 
and Arabella were also divided. 

A rumor had reached Lady Penwether of the 
truth in regard to their guests from Bragton. 
Mr. Gotobed had whispered to her that he had 
understood that they certainly were engaged ; 
and even before that the names of the two lovers 
had been wafted to her ears from the other side 
of the Atlantic. Both John Morton and Lady 
Augustus were "somebodies," and Lady Pen- 
wether generally knew what there was to be 
known of any body who was any body. But it 
was quite clear to her — more so even than to poor 



John Morton — that the lady was conducting her- 
self now as though she were fettered by no bonds, 
and it seemed to Lady Penwether also that the 
lady was very anxious to contract other bonds. 
She knew her brother well. He was always in 
love with somebody ; but as he had hitherto fail- 
ed of success where marriage was desirable, so had 
he avoided disaster when it was not. He was 
one of those men who are generally supposed to 
be averse to matrimony. Lady Penwether and 
some other relatives were anxious that he should 
take a wife ; but his sister was by no meaqs anx- 
ious that he should take such a one as Arabella 
Trefoil. Therefore she thought that she might 
judiciously ask Mi\ Morton a few questions. " I 
believe you knew the Trefoils in Washington?" 
she said. 

Morton acknowledged that he had seen much 
of them there. 

"She is very handsome, certainly." 

"I think so." 

"And rides well, I suppose." 

' ' I don't know. I never heard much of her 
riding." 

" Has she been staying long at Bragton?" 

"Just a week." 

"Do you know Lord Augustus ?" 

Morton said that he did not know Lord Au- 
gustus, and then answered sundry other questions 
of the same nature in the same uncommunicative 
way. Though he had once or twice almost fan- 
cied that he would like to proclaim aloud that 
the girl was engaged to him, yet he did not like 
to have the fact pumped out of him. And if she 
were such a girl as slie now appeared to be, might 
it not be better for him to let her go? Surely 
her conduct here at Rufford Hall was opportuni- 
ty enough. No doubt she was handsome. No 
doubt he loved her — after his fashion of loving. 
But to lose her now would not break his heart ; 
whereas to lose her after he was married to lier 
would, he knew well, bring him to the very 
ground. He would ask her a question or two 
this very night, and then come to some resolu- 
tion. With such thoughts as these crossing his 
mind, he certainly was not going to proclaim 
his engagement to Lady Penwether. But Lady 
Penwether was a determined woman. Her smile, 
when she condescended to smile, was very sweet, 
lighting up her whole face, and flattering for the 
moment the person on whom it shone. It was 
as though a rose, in emitting its perfume, could 
confine itself to the nostrils of its one favored 
friend. And now she smiled on Morton as she 
asked another question. "I did hear," she 
said, "from one of your Foreign - office young 
men that you and Miss Trefoil were very inti- 
mate." 

"Who was that, Lady Penwether?" 

"Of course I shall mention no name. You 
might call out the poor lad and shoot him, or, 
worse still, have him put down to the bottom of 
his class. But I did hear it. And then, when 
I find her staying with her mother at your house, 
of course I believe it to be true." 

"Now she is staying at your brother's house 
— which is much the same thing. " 

" But I am here." 

"And my grandmother is at Bragton. ''' 

"That puts me in mind, Mr. Morton. I am 
so sorry that we did not know it, so that we 
might have asked her." 



60 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



"She never goes out anywhere, Lady Pen- 
wetlier." 

"And there is nothing, then, in the report 
that I heard." 

Morton paused a moment before he answered, 
and during that moment collected his diplomatic 
resources. He was not a weak man, who could 
be made to tell any thing by the wiles of a pret- 
ty woman. ' ' I think, " he said, ' ' that when peo- 
ple have any tiling of that kind which they wish 
to be known, they declare it." 

" I beg your pardon. I did not mean to un- 
ravel a secret." 

" There are secrets. Lad}' Penwethei", which 
people do like to unravel, but which the owners 
of them sometimes won't abandon." 

Then there was nothing more said on the sub- 
ject. Lady Penwether did not smile again, and 
left himj to go about the room on her business as 
hostess as soon as the dance was over. But she 
was sure that they were engaged. 

In the mean time the conversation between 
Lord Rufford and Arabella was very different in 
its tone, though on the same subject. He was 
certainly very much struck with her, not proba- 
bh' ever waiting to declare to himself that she was 
the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in 
his life, but still feeling toward her an attraction 
which for the time was strong. A very clever 
girl would frighten him ; a very horsey girl 
would disgust him ; a very quiet girl would bore 
him, or a very noisy girl annoy him. With a shy 
girl he could never be at his ease, not enjoying 
the labor of overcoming such a barrier ; and yet 
he liked to be able to feel that any female in- 
timacy which he admitted was due to his own 
choice, and not to that of the young woman. 
Arabella Trefoil was not very clever, but she 
had given all her mind to this peculiar phase of 
life, and, to use a common phrase, knew what 
she was about. She was quite alive to the fact 
that difierent men require different manners in a 
young woman ; and as she had adapted herself to 
Mr. Morton at Washington, so could she at Ruf- 
ford adapt herself to Lord Rufford. At the pres- 
ent moment the lord was in love with her as much 
as he was wont to be in love. "Doesn't it seem 
an immense time since we came here yesterday ?" 
she said to him. " There has been so much done. " 

" There has been a great misfortune." 

"I suppose that is it. Only for that, how 
very, very pleasant it would have been!" 

"Yes, indeed. It was a nice run, and that 
little horse carried you charmingly. I wish I 
could see you ride him again." She shook her 
head as she looked up into his face. " Why do 
j'ou shake j'our head ?" 

"Because I am afraid there is no possible 
chance of such happiness. We are going to 
such a dull house to-morrow ! And then to so 
many dull houses afterward." 

"I don't know why you shouldn't come back 
and have another day or two, when all this sad- 
ness has gone by. " 

"Don't talk about it. Lord Rufford." 

"Why not?" 

"I never like to talk about any pleasure, he- 
cause it always vanishes as soon as it has come ; 
and when it has been real pleasure, it never 
comes back again. I don't think I ever enjoyed 
any thing so much as our ride this morning, till 
that tragedy came." 



" Poor Caneback !" 

"I suppose there is no hope !" He shook his 
head. "And we must go on to those Gores to- 
morrow without knowing any thing about it. I 
wonder whether you could send me a line ?"' 

"Of course I can, and I will." Then he ask- 
ed her a question, looking into her face. "You 
are not going back to Bragton ?" 

"Oh dear, no." 

"Was Bragton dull?" 

"Awfully dull— frightfully dull." 

"You know what they say ?" 

"What who say. Lord Rufford? People say 
any thing — the more ill-natured, the better they 
like it, I think." 

"Have you not heard what they say about 
you and Mr. Morton ?" 

"Just because mamma made a promise when 
in Washington to go to Bragton with that Mr. 
Gotobed. Don't you find they marry you to 
ever}' body ?" 

"They have married me to a good many peo- 
ple. Perhaps they'll marry me to you to-mor- 
row. That would not be so bad." 

"Oh, Lord Rufford ! Nobody has ever con- 
demned you to any thing so terrible as that." 

"There was no truth in it, then. Miss Tre- 
foil ?" 

' ' None at all, Lord Rufford. Only I don't 
know why you should ask me." 

"Well, I don't know. A man likes some- 
times to be sure how the land lies. Mr. Morton 
looks so cross that I thought that perhaps the 
very fact of my dancing with you might be an 
offense." 

"Is he cross?" 

"You know him better than I do. Perhaps 
it's his nature. Now I must do one other dance 
with a native, and then my Avork will be over." 

"That isn't very civil. Lord Rufford." 

"If you do not know what I meant, you're 
not the girl I take you to be." 

Then, as she walked with him back out of the 
ball-room into the drawing-room, she assured 
him that she did know what he meant, and that 
therefore she was the girl he took her to be. 

She had determined that she would not dance 
again, and had resolved to herd with the other 
ladies of the house — waiting for any opportuni- 
ty that chance might give her for having a last 
Avord with Lord Rufford before they parted for 
the night — when Morton came up to her and 
demanded, rather than asked, that she would 
stand up with him for a quadrille. 

" We settled it all among ourselves, you know," 
she said. "We were to dance only once, just to 
set the people off." 

He still persisted, but she still refused, al- 
leging that she was bound by the general com- 
pact, and, though he was very urgent, she would 
not yield. "I wonder how you can ask me," 
she said. " You don't suppose that, after Avhat 
has occurred, I can have any pleasure in dan- 
cing." 

Upon this he asked her to take a turn with 
him through the rooms, and to that she found 
herself compelled to assent. Then he spoke out 
to her. "Arabella," he said, "I am not quite 
content with what has been going on since we 
came to this house." 

"I am sorry for that." 

"Nor, indeed, have I been made very happy 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



61 



by all that has occurred since your mother and 
you did me the honor of coming to Bragton." 

"I must acknowledge you haven't seemed to 
be very happy, Mr. Morton." 

"I don't want to distress you, and, as far as 
possible, I wish to avoid distressing myself. If it 
is your wish that our engagement should be over, 
I will endeavor to bear it. If it is to be contin- 
ued, I expect that your manner to me should be 
altered." 

"What ami to say?" 

" Say what you feel." 

"I feel that I can't alter my manner, as you 
call it." 

"You do wish the engagement to be over, 
then ?" 

"I did not say so. The truth is, Mr. Mor- 
ton, that there is some trouble about the law- 
yers." 

"Why do you always call me Mr. Morton?" 

" Because I am aware how probable it is that 
all this may come to nothing. I can't walk out 
of the house and marry you as the cook-maid 
does the gardener. I've got to wait till I'm told 
that every thing is settled ; and at present I'm 
told that things are not settled because you won't 
agree." 

' ' I'll leave it to any body to say whether I've 
been unreasonable." 

"I won't go into that. I haven't meddled 
with it, and I don't know any thing about it. 
But, until it is all settled, as a matter of course 
there must be some little distance between us. 
It's the commonest thing in the world, I should 
say. " 

" What is to be the end of it ?" 

"I dasnot know. If you think youi'self in- 
jured, you can back out of it at once. I've noth- 
ing more to say about it." 

"And you think I can like the way you're go- 
ing on here ?" 

"If you're jealous, Mr. Morton, there's an end 
of it. I tell you ftiirly, once for all, that as long 
as I'm a single woman I will regulate my con- 
duct as I please. You can do the same, and I 
shall not say a word to you." Then she with- 
drew her arm from him, and, leaving him, walked 
across the room and joined her mother. He 
went off at once to his own room, resolving that 
he would write to her from Bragton. He had 
made his propositions in regard to money which 
he was quite aware were as liberal as was fit. If 
she would now fix a day for their marriage, he 
would be a happy man. If she would not bring 
herself to do this, then he would have no alter- 
native but to regard their engagement as at an 
end. 

At two o'clock the guests were nearly all gone. 
The major was alive, and likely to live at least 
for some hours, and the Rufford people general- 
ly were glad that they had not put oif the ball. 
Some of them who were staying in the house had 
already gone to bed, and Lady Penwether, with 
Miss Penge at her side, was making her last 
adieus in the drawing-room. The ball-room was 
reached from the drawing-room, with a vestibule 
between them ; and opening from this was a 
small chamber, prettily furnished, but seldom 
used, which had no peculiar purpose of its own, 
but in which during the present evening many 
sweet words had pi'obably been spoken. Now, 
at this last moment, Lord Ruiford and Arabella 



Trefoil were there alone together. She had just 
got up from a sofa, and he had taken her hand 
in his. She did not attempt to withdraw it, but 
stood looking down upon the ground. Then he 
passed his arm round her waist, and, lifting her 
face to his, held her in a close embrace from 
which she made no effort to free herself. As 
soon as she was released she hastened to the 
door, which Avas all but closed, and, as she open- 
ed it and passed through to the drawing-room, 
said some ordinary word to him quite aloud in 
her ordinary voice. If his action had disturbed 
her, she knew very well how to recover her 
equanimity. 



CHAPTER XXV. 

THE LAST MOKNING AT RXJFFORD HALT,. 

"Well, my love?" said Lady Augustus, as 
soon as her daughter had joined her in her bed- 
room. On such occasions there was always a 
quarter of an hour before going to bed in which 
the mother and daughter discussed their affairs, 
while the two lady's maids were discussing their 
affairs in the other room. The two maids prob- 
ably did not often quarrel, but the mother and 
daughter usually did. 

"I wish that stupid man hadn't got himself 
hurt." 

"Of course, my dear, we all wish that. But 
I really don't see that it has stood much in your 
way." 

"Yes it has. After all, there is nothing like 
dancing, and we shouldn't all have been sent to 
bed at two o'clock." 

" Then it has come to nothing ?" 

"I didn't say that at all, mamma. I think I 
have done uncommonly well : indeed, I know I 
have. But, then, if every thing had not been up- 
set, I might have done so much better." 

"Wh.nt have you done?" asked Lady Augus- 
tus, timidly. She knew perfectly well that her 
daughter would tell her nothing, and j^et she al- 
ways asked these questions, and was always an- 
gry when no information w^as given to her. Any 
young woman would have found it very hard to 
give the information needed. "When we were 
alone, he sat for five minutes with his arm round 
my waist, and then he kissed me. He didn't 
say much, but then I knew perfectly well that 
he would be on his guard not to commit himself 
by words. But I've got him to promise that he'll 
write to me, and of course I'll answer in such a 
way that he must write again. I know he'll 
want to see me, and I think I can go very near 
doing it. But he's an old stager, and knows 
what he's about ; and of course there'll be ever so 
many people to tell him I'm not the sort of girl 
he ought to marrv. He'll hear about Colonel De 

B , and Sir C. D , and Lord E. F , 

and there are ever so many chances against me. 
But I've made up my mind to try it. It's taking 
the long odds. I can hardly expect to win, but 
if I do pall it off, I'm made forever ! " A daugh- 
ter can hardly say all that to her mother. Even 
Arabella Trefoil could not say it to her mother — 
or, at any rate, she would not. "What a ques- 
tion that is to ask, mamma!" she did say, toss- 
ing her head. 

" Well, my dear, unless you tell me some- 
thing, how can I help you ?" 



62 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



" I don't know tliat I want you to help me — 
at any rate, not in that way." 

"In what way?" 

"Oh, mamma, you are so odd." 

"Has he said any thing?" 
. "Yes, he has. He said he liked dry Cham- 
pagne, and that he never eat supper." 

"If you won't tell me how things are going, 
you may fight your own hattles by yourself." 

"That's just what I must do. Nobody else 
can fight my battles for me." 

" What are you going to do about Mr. Mor- 
ton ?" 

"Nothing." 

"I saw him talking to you, and looking as 
black as thunder. " 

"He always looks as black as thunder." 

"Is that to be all oif? I insist upon having 
an answer to that question." 

"I believe you fancy, mamma, that a lot of 
men can be played like a parcel of chess-men, and 
that as soon as a knight is knocked on the head 
you can take him up and put him into the box, 
and have done with it." 

"You haven't done with Mr. Morton, then ?" 

"Poor Mr. Morton! I do feel he is badly 
used, because he is so honest. I sometimes wish 
that I could afford to be honest, too, and to tell 
somebody the downright truth. I should like 
to tell him the truth, and I almost think I will : 
' My dear fellow, I did for a time think I couldn't 
do better, and I'm not at all sure now that I 
can. But, then, you are so very dull, and I'm not 
certain that I should cai'e to be queen of the 
English society at the Court of the Emperor of 
Morocco! But if you'll wait for another six 
months, I shall be able to tell you.' That's what 
I should have to say to him." 

"Who is talking nonsense now, Arabella?" 

"I am not. But I sha'n't say it. And now, 
mamma, I'll tell you what we must do." 

"You must tell me why also ?" 

"I can do nothing of the kind. He knows 
the duke." The duke with the Trefoils always 
meant the Duke of Mayfair, who was Arabella's 
ducal uncle. 

" Intimatelj'^ ?" 

"Well, enough to go there. ' There is to be a 
great shooting at Mistletoe " — Mistletoe was the 
duke's place — "in January. I got that from 
him, and he can go if he likes. He won't go as 
it is ; but if I tell him I'm to be there, I think he 
will." 

"What did you tell him ?" 

" Well, I told him a tarradiddle, of course. I 
made him understand that I could be there if I 
pleased, and he thinks that I mean to be there 
if he goes." 

"But I'm sure the duchess won't have me 
again." 

" She might let me come." 

"And what am I to do ?" 

"You could go to Brighton with Miss De 
Groat ; or what does it matter for a fortnight ? 
You'll get the advantage when it's done. It's as 
well to have the truth out at once, mamma: I 
can not carry on if I'm always to be stuck close 
to your apron-strings. There are so many peo- 
ple won't have you." 

"Arabella, I do think you are the most un- 
gi'ateful, hard-hearted creature that ever lived." 

" Very well ; I don't know what I have to be 



grateful about, and I need to be hard-hearted — 
of course I am hard-hearted. The thing will be, 
to get papa to see his brother." 

' ' Your papa ! " 

' ' Yes ; that's what I mean to try. Tlie duke, 
of course, would like me to marry Lord Eufford. 
Do you think that if I were at home here it 
wouldn't make Mistletoe a very different sort of 
place for you ? The duke does like papa in a 
sort of way, and he's civil enough to me when I'm 
there. He never did like you." 

"Every body is so fond of you ! It was what 
you did when young Stranorlar was there which 
made the duchess almost turn us out of the 
house." 

"What's the good of your saying that, mam- 
ma ? If you go on like that, I'll separate myself 
from you and throw myself on papa ?" 

" Your father wouldn't lift his little finger for 
you," 

"I'll try, at any rate. Will you consent to 
my going there without you if I can manage it." 

"What did Lord Eufford say?" Arabella 
here made a grimace. 

"You can tell me something. What are the 
lawyers to say to Mr. Morton's people ?" 

"Whatever they like." 

"If they come to arrangements, do you mean 
to marry him?" 

"Not for the next two months, certainly. I 
sha'n't see him again now, Heaven knows Avhen. 
He'll write, no doubt, one of his awfully sensible 
letters, and I shall take my time about answering 
him. I can stretch it out for two months. If 
I'm to do any good with this man, it will be all 
arranged before that time. If the duke could 
really be made to believe that Lord Eufford was 
in earnest, I'm sure he'd have me there. As to 
her, she always does what he tells her." 

" He is going to write to you ?" 

"I told you that before, mamma. What is 
the good of asking a lot of questions ? You know 
now what my plan is, and if you won't help me, 
I must carry it out alone. And, remember, 1 
don't want to start to-morrow till after Morton 
and that Americari have gone. " Then, without a 
kiss, or wishing her mother good-night, she went 
off to her own room. 

The next morning at about nine, Arabella 
heard from her maid that the major was still 
alive, but senseless. The London surgeon had 
been there, and had declared it to be possible 
that the patient should live, but bai-ely possi- 
ble. At ten they were all at breakfast, and the 
carriage from Bragton was already at the door 
to take back Mr. Morton and his American 
friend. Lady Augustus had been clever enough 
to arrange that she should have the phaeton to 
take her to the Eufford station a little later on 
in the day, and had already hinted to one of the 
servants that perhaps a cart might be sent with 
the luggage. The cart was forthcoming. Lady 
Augustus was very clever in arranging her loco- 
motion, and seldom paid for much more than 
her railway tickets. 

" I had meant to say a few words to you, my 
lord, about that man Goarly," said the Senator, 
standing before the fire in the breakf\ist-room, 
"but this sad catastrophe has stopped me." 

" There isn't much to say about him, Mr. Go- 
tobed." 

" Perhaps not ; only I would not wish you to 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



63 



think that I would oppose you without some 
cause. If the man is in the wrong according to 
law, let him be proved to be so. The cost to 
you will be nothing. To him it might be of con- 
siderable importance." 

"Just so. Won't you sit down and have 
some breakfost ? If Goarly ever makes himself 
nuisance enough, it may be worth my while to 
buy him out at three times the value of his 
land. But he'll have to be a very great nuisance 
before I shall do that. Dillsborough Wood is not 
the only fox covert in the county. " 

After that there was no more said about it ; 
but neither did Lord llufford understand the 
Senator, nor did the Senator understand Lord 
Ruiford. John Runce had a clearer conviction 
in his mind than either of them. Goarly ought 
to be hanged, and no American should, under 
any circumstances, be allowed to put his foot 
upon British soil. That was Runce's idea of 
tlie matter. 

The parting between Morton and the Trefoils 
was very chill and uncomfortable. ' ' Good-bye, 
Mr. Morton : we had such a pleasant time at 
Bragton ! " said Lady Augustus. 

"I shall write to yon this afternoon," he whis- 
pered to Arabella, as he took her hand. 

She smiled and murmured a word of adieu, but 
made him no reply. Then they were gone, and 
as he got into the carriage he told himself that 
in all probability he would never see her again. 
It might be that he would curtail his leave of 
absence, and get back to Washington as quickly 
as possible. 

The Trefoils did not start for an hour after 
this, during which Arabella could hardly find an 
opportunity for a word in private. She could 
not quite appeal to him to walk with her in the 
grounds, or even to take a turn with her round 
the empty ball-room. She came down dressed 
for walking, thinking that so she might have 
the best chance of getting him for a quarter of 
an hour to herself ; but he was either too wary, 
or else the habits of his life prevented it. And, 
in what she had to do, it was so easy to go be- 
yond the proper line ! She would wish him to 
understand that she would like to be alone with 
him after what had passed between them on the 
previous evening, but she must be careful not to 
let him imagine that she was too anxious. And, 
then, whatever she did she had to do with so 
many eyes upon her! And when she went, as 
she would do now in so short a time, so many 
hostile tongues would attack her! He had ev- 
ery thing to protect him; and she had nothing, 
absolutely nothing, to help her ! It was thus 
that she looked at it, and yet she had courage 
for the battle. Almost at the last moment she 
did get a word with him in the hall. " How is 
he?" 

"Oh, better, decidedly." 

"I am so glad! If I could only think that 
he could live! Well, my lord, we have to sav 
good-bye." 

"I suppose so." 

"You'll write me a line — about him." 

"Certainly." 

"I shall be so glad to have a line from Ruf- 
ford. Maddox Hall, you know, Stafford." 

"I will remember." 

"And dear old Jack. Tell me, when you 
write, what Jack has been doing." Then she 



put out her hand, and he held it. "I wonder 
whether you will ever remember — " But she 
did not quite know what to bid him remember, 
and therefore turned away her face and wiped 
away a tear, and then smiled as she turned it 
back on him. The carriage was at the door, 
and the ladies flocked into the hall, and then not 
another word could be said. 

"That's what I call a really nice country 
house," said Lady Augustus, as fhe was driven 
away. Arabella sat back in the phaeton lost in 
thought, and said nothing. "Every thing so 
well done, and yet none of all that fuss that 
there is at Mistletoe." She paused, but still her 
daughter did not speak. "If I were beginning 
the world again, I would not wish for a better 
establishment than that. Why can't you an- 
swer me a word when I speak to you ?" 

"Of course it's all very nice. What's the 
good of going on in that way ? What a shame 
it is that a man like that should have so much, 
and that a girl like me should have nothing at 
all ! I know twice as much as he does, and am 
twice as clever, and yet I've got to treat him as 
though he were a god. He's all very well, but 
what would any body think of him if he were 
a younger brother with three hundred pounds 
a year ?" This was a kind of philosophy which 
Lady Augustus hated. She threw herself back, 
therefore, in the phaeton, and pretended to go 
to sleep. 

The wheels were not out of sight of the house 
before the attack on the Trefoils began. "I 
had heard of Lady Augustus before," said Lady 
Penwether, "but I didn't think that any woman 
could be so disagreeable." 

"So vulgar!" said Miss Penge. 

"Wasn't she the daughter of an iron-monger ?" 
asked the elder Miss Godolphin. 

' ' The girl, of course, is handsome, " said Lady 
Penwether. 

"But so self-sufficient," said Miss Godolphin. 

"And almost as vulgar as her mother," said 
Miss Penge. 

"She may be clever," said Lady Penwether, 
"but I do not think I should ever like her." 

" She is one of those girls whom only gentle- 
men like," said Miss Penge. 

"And whom they don't like very long," said 
Lady Penwether. 

"How well I understand all this!" said Lord 
Rufford, turning to the younger Miss Godolphin. 
" It is all said for my benefit, and considered to 
be necessary because I danced with the young 
lady last night." 

"I hope you are not attributing such a mo- 
tive to me," said Miss Penge. 

"Or to me," said Miss Godolphin. 

" I look on both of you and Eleanor as all one 
on the present occasion. I am considered to be 
falling over a precipice, and she has got hold of 
my coat-tails. Of course, j^ou wouldn't be Chris- 
tians if you didn't both of you seize a foot." 

"Looking at it in that light, I certainly wish 
to be understood as holding on very fast," said 
Miss Penge. 



64 



THE AMEEICAN SENATOR. 



CHAPTER XXVI. 

GIVE ME SIX MONTHS. 

, There was a great deal of trouble and some 
genuine sorrow in the attorney's house at Dills- 
borough during the first week in December. Mr. 
Masters had declared to his wife that Mary should 
go to Cheltenham, and a letter was written to 
Lady Ushant accepting the invitation. The twen- 
ty pounds, toojiwere forthcoming, and the dress 
and the boots and the hat were bought. But 
while this was going on Mrs. Masters took care 
that there should be no comfort whatever around 
them, and made every meal a separate curse to 
the unfortunate lawyer. She told him ten times 
a day that she had been a mother to his daughter, 
but declared that such a position was no longer 
possible to her, as the girl had been taken alto- 
gether out of her hands. To Mary she hardly 
spoke at all, and made her thoroughly wish that 
Lady Ushant's kindness had been declined. 
"Mamma," she said, one day, "I had rather 
write now and tell her that I can not come. " 

"After all the money has been wasted!" 

" I have only got things that I must have had 
very soon." 

"If you have got any thing to say, you had 
better talk to your father, I know nothing 
about it." 

"You break my heart when you say that, 
mamma !" 

"You think nothing about breaking mine, or 
that young man's who is behaving so well to you. 
What riiakes me mad is to see you shilly-shally- 
ing with him. 

"Mamma, I haven't shilly-shallied." 

"That's what I call it. Why can't you speak 
him fair and tell him you'll have him, and settle 
yourself down properly. You've got some idea 
into your silly head that what you call a gentle- 
man will come after yon." 

"Mamma, that isn't fair." 

" Very well, miss. As your father takes your 
part, of course you can say what you please to 
me. I say it is so." 

Mary knew very well what her mother meant, 
and was safe at least from any allusion to Regi- 
nald Morton. There was an idea prevalent in 
the house, and not without some cause, that Mr. 
Surtees, the curate, had looked with an eye of 
favor on Mary Masters. Mr. Surtees was cei- 
tainly a gentleman, but his income was strictly 
limited to the sum of one hundi'ed and twenty- 
pounds per annum, which he received from Mr. 
Mainwaring. Now, Mrs. Masters disliked clergy- 
men, disliked gentlemen, and especially disliked 
poverty, and therefore was not disposed to look 
upon Mr. Surtees as an eligible suitor for her step- 
daughter. But as the curate's courtship had hith- 
erto been of the coldest kind, and as it had re- 
ceived no encouragement from the young lady, 
Mary was certainly justified in declaring that the 
allusion was not fair. 

"What I want to know is this: are you pre- 
pared to marry Lawrence Twentyman ?" To this 
question, as Mary could not give a favorable an- 
swer, she thought it best to make none at all. 
"There is a man as has got a house fit for any 
woman, and means to keep it; who can give a 
young woman every thing that she ought to 
want; and a handsome fellow, too, with some 
life in him; one who really dotes on you — as 



men don't often do on young women now, as far 
as I can see, I wonder what it is you would 
have!" 

"I want nothing, mamma." 

"Yes, you do. You have been reading books 
of poetry till you don't know what it is you do 
want. You've got yom* head full of claptraps 
and tantrums, till you haven't a grain of sense 
belonging to you. I hate such ways! It's a 
spurning of the gifts of Providence not to have 
such a man as Lawrence Twentyman when he 
comes in your way. Who are you, I wonder, that 
you shouldn't be contented with such as him? 
He'll go and take some one else, and then you'll 
be fit to break your heart fi'etting after him, and 
I sha'n't pity you a bit. It'll serve you right, 
and you'll die an old maid ; and what there will be 
for yon to live upon, God in heaven only knows ! 
You're breaking your father's heart, as it is." 
Then she sat down in a rocking - chair, and, 
throwing her apron over her eyes, gave herself 
up to a deluge of hysterical tears. 

This was very hard upon Mary ; for though 
she did not believe all the horrible things which 
her step-mother said to her, she did believe some 
of them. She was not afraid of the fate of an 
old maid which was threatened, but she did 
think that her marriage with this man M'ould be 
for the benefit of the ftimily, and a great relief 
to her father. And she knew, too, that he was 
respectable, and believed him to be thoroughly 
earnest in his love. For such love as that it is 
impossible that a girl should not be grateful. 
There was nothing to allure him, nothing to 
tempt him to such a marriage, but a simple ap- 
preciation of her personal merits. And in life 
he was, at any rate, her equal. She had told 
Reginald Morton that Larry Twentyman was a 
fit companion for her and for her sisters, and she 
owned as much to herself every day. When she 
acknowledged all this, she was tempted to ask 
herself whether she ought not to accept the man 
— if not for her own sake, at least for that of the 
family. 

That same evening her father called her into 
the office after the clerks were gone, and spoke 
to her thus: "Your mamma is very unhappy, 
my dear," he said. 

'"I'm afraid I have made every body unhappy 
by wanting to go to Cheltenham." 

"It is not only that. That is reasonable 
enough, and you ought to go. Mamma woidd 
say nothing more about that, if you would make 
up your mind to one thing." 

"What thing, papa?" Of course she knew 
very well what tlie thing was. 

" It is time for you to think of settling in life, 
Mary. I never would put it into a girl's head 
that she ought to worry herself about getting a 
husband unless the opportunity seemed to come 
in her way. Young women should be quiet, and 
wait tillthey're sought after. But here is a 
young man seeking you whom we all like and 
approve. A good house is a very good thing 
when it's fairly come by." 

"Yes, papa." 

"And so is a full house. A girl shouldn't 
run after money, but plenty is a great comfort in 
this world, when it can be" had without blushing 
for." 

"Yes, papa." 

"And so is an honest man's love, I don't 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



65 



like to see any girl wearying after some fellow to 
be always fal-lalling with her. A good girl will 
be able to be happy and contented without that. 
But a lone life is a poor life, and a good husband 
is about the best blessing that a young woman 
can have." To this proposition Mary perhaps 
agreed in her own mind, Jbut she gave no spoken 
assent. " Now, this young man that is wanting 
to marry you has got all these things, and, as far 
as I can judge with my experience in the world, 
is as likely to make a good husband as any one 
I know." He paused for an answer, but Mary 
could only lean close upon his arm and be silent. 
" Have you any thing to say about it, my dear ? 
You see it has been going on now a long time, 
and, of course, he'll look to have it decided." 
But still she could say nothing. "Well, now, he 
has been with me to-day." 

' ' Mr. Twentyman ?" 

"Yes, Mr. Twentyman. He knows you're 
going to Cheltenham, and of course he has noth- 
ing to say against that. No young man such 
as he would be sorry that his sweetheart should 
be entertained by such a lady as Lady Ushant. 
But he says that he wants to have an answer be- 
fore you go. " 

"I did answer him, papa." 

"Yes; you refused him. But he hopes that 
perhaps you may think better of it. He has been 
with me, and I have told him that if he will come 
to-morrow you will see him. He is to be here 
after dinner, and you had better just take him 
upstairs and hear what he has to say. If you 
can make up your mind to like him, you will 
please all your family. But if you can't, I won't 
quarrel with you, my dear." 

"Oh, papa, you are always so good !" 

" Of course I am anxious that you should have 
a home of your own ; but let it be how it may, I 
will not quarrel with my child," 

All that evening, and almost all the night, and 
again on the following morning, Mary turned it 
over in her mind. She was quite sure that she 
was not in love with Larry Twentyman ; but she 
was by no means sure that it might not be her 
duty to accept him without being in love with 
liim. Of course he must know the whole truth ; 
but she could tell him the truth, and then leave 
it for him to decide. What right had she to 
stand in the way of her friends, or to be a burden 
to them, when such a mode of life was offered to 
her ? She had nothing of her own, and regard- 
ed herself as being a dead weight on the family. 
And she was conscious, in a certain degree, of 
isolation in the household, as being her father's 
only child by the first marriage. She would 
hardly know how to look her father in the face 
and tell him that she had again refused" the man. 
But yet there was something awful to her in the 
idea of giving herself to a man without loving 
him, in becoming a man's wife when she would 
fiiin remain away from him ! Would it be pos- 
sible that she should live with him while her 
feelings were of such a nature ? And then she 
blushed, as she lay in the dark, with her cheek 
on her pillow, when she found herself forced to 
inquire within her own heart whether she did 
not love some one else. She would not own it, 
and yet she blushed, and yet she thought of it. 
If there might be such a man, it was not the 
young clergyman to whom her mother had al- 
luded. 

S 



Through all that morning she was very quiet, 
very pale, and, in truth, very unhappy. Her fa- 
ther said no further word to her, and her step- 
mothei" had been implored to be equally reticent. 
"I sha'n't speak another word," said Mrs. Mas- 
tei-s : " her fortune is in her own hands ; and if 
she don't choose to take it, I've done with her. 
One man may lead a horse to water, but a hun- 
dred can't make him drink. It's just the same 
with an obstinate, pig-headed young woman," 

At three o'clock Mr. Twentyman came, and 
was at once desired to go up to Mary, who was 
waiting for him in the drawing-room. Mrs. 
Masters smiled, and was gracious as she spoke 
to him, having for the moment wreathed herself 
in good humor, so that he might go to his woo- 
ing in better spirit. He had learned his lesson 
by heart, or as nearly as he was able, and began 
to recite it as soon as he had closed the door. 
" So you're going to Cheltenham on Thursday," 
he said. 

" Yes, Mr. Twentyman." 

" I hope you'll enjoy your visit tliere. I re- 
member Lady Ushant myself very well. I don't 
suppose she will remember me, but you can give 
her my compliments." 

"I certainly will do that." 

"And now, Mary, what have you got to say 
to me ?" He looked for a moment as though he 
expected that she would say what she had to say 
at once, without further question from him ; but 
he knew that it could not be so, and he had pre- 
pared his lesson further than that. "I think 
you must believe that I really do love you with 
all my heart." 

"I know that you are very good to me, Mr. 
Twentyman." 

" I. don't say any thing about being good, but 
I'm true ; that I ara. I'd take you for my wife 
to-morrow, if you hadn't a friend in the world, 
just for downright love. I've got you so in my 
heart, Mary, that I couldn't get rid of you if I 
tried ever so. You must know that it's true." 

"I do know that it's true." 

"Well! Don't you think that a fellow like 
that deserves something from a girl?" 

"Indeed I do." 

"Well!" 

"He deserves a great deal too much for any 
girl to deceive him. You wouldn't like a young 
woman to marry you without loving you ? I 
think you deserve a great deal too well of me for 
that." 

Hejjaused a moment before he replied. "I 
don't know about that," he said at last. " I be- 
lieve I should be glad to take you just anyhow, 
I don't think you can hate me." 

"Certainly not. I like you as well, Mr. 
Twentyman, as one friend can like another, 
without loving." 

"I'll be content with that, Mary, and chance 
it for the rest. I'll be that kind to you, that I'll 
make you love me before twelve months are over. 
You come and try. You shall be mistress of ev- 
ery thing. Mother isn't one that will want to be 
in the way." 

"It isn't that, Larry," she said. She hadn't 
called him Larry for a long time, and the sound 
of his own name from her lips gave him infinite 
hope. 

"Come and try. Say you'll try. If ever a 
man did liis best to please a woman, I'll do it to 



66 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



please you. Then he attempted to take her in 
his arms, but she glided away from him round 
the table. " I won't ask you not to go to Chel- 
tenham, or any thing of that. You shall have 
your own time. By George! you shall have 
every thing your own way." Still she did not 
answer him, but stood looking down upon the ta- 
ble. " Come ; say a word to a fellow." 

Then at last she spoke. "Give me — six 
months to think of it." 

" Six months ! If you'd say six weeks. " 

"It is such a serious thing to do." 

" It is serious, of course. I'm serious, I know. 
I shouldn't hunt above half as often as I do now ; 
and as for the club, I don't suppose I should go 
near the place once a month. Say six weeks, 
and then, if you'll let me have one kiss, I'll not 
trouble you till you're back from Cheltenham." 

Mary at once perceived that he had taken her 
doubt almost as a complete surrender, and had 
again to become obdurate. At last she promised 
to give him a final answer in two months, but de- 
clared, as she said so, that she was afraid she 
could not bring herself to do as he desired. She 
declined altogether to comply with that other re- 
quest which he made, and then left him in the 
room, declaring that at present she could say 
nothing further. As she did so, she felt sure 
that she would not be able to accept him in two 
months' time, whatever she might bring herself 
to do when the vast abyss of six months should 
have passed by. 

Larry made his way down into the parlor with 
hopes considerably raised. There he found Mrs. 
Masters ; and when he told her what had passed, 
she assured him that the thing was as good as 
settled. Every body knew, she said, that when 
a girl doubted she meant to yield. And what 
were two months ? The time would have nearly 
gone by the end of her visit to Cheltenham. It 
was now early in December, and they might be 
married and settled at home before the end of 
April. Mrs. Masters, to give him courage, took 
out a bottle of currant-wine and drank his health, 
and told him tliat in three months' time she 
would give him a kiss and call him her son. 
And she believed what she said. This, she 
thought, was merely Mary's way of letting her- 
self down without a sudden fall. 

Then the attorney came in, and also congratu- 
lated him. When the attorney was told that 
Mary had taken two months for her decision, he 
also felt that the matter was almost as good as 
settled. This, at any rate, was clear tojiim — 
that the existing misery of his household would 
for the present cease, and that Mary would be 
allowed to go upon her visit without further oppo- 
sition. He at present did not think it wise to 
say another word to Maiy about the young man, 
nor would Mrs. Masters condescend to do so. 
Mary would, of course, now accept her lover like 
any other girl, and had been such a fool — so 
thought Mrs. Masters — that she had thoroughly 
deserved to lose him. 



CHAPTER XXVII. 

"WONDEEFUL BIRD!" 

There were but two days between the scenes 
described in the last chapter and the day fixed 
for Mary's departure, and during those two days 



Larry Twentyman's name was not mentioned in 
the house. Mrs. Masters did not make herself 
quite pleasant to her step-daughter, having still 
some grudge against her as to the twenty pounds. 
Nor, though she had submitted to the visit to 
Cheltenham, did she approve of it. It wasn't 
the way, she said, to make such a girl as Mary 
like her life at Chowton Fai-m, going and sitting 
and doing nothing in old Lady Ushant's draw- 
ing-room. It was cocking her up with gimcrack 
notions about ladies till she'd be ashamed to look 
at her own hands after she had done a day's 
work with them. There was, no doubt, some 
truth in this. The woman understood the world, 
and was able to measure Larry Twentyman and 
Lady Ushant, and the rest of them. Books, 
and pretty needle -work, and easy conversation 
would consunie the time at Cheltenliam, whereas 
at Chowton Farm there would be a dairy and a 
poultry -yard — under difficulties on account of 
the foxes — Avith a prospect of baby linen and 
children's shoes and stockings. It was all that 
question of gentlemen and ladies, and of non- 
gentlemen and non-ladies! They ought, Mrs. 
Masters thought, to be kept distinct. She had 
never, she said, wanted to put her finger into a 
pie that didn't belong to her. She had never 
tried to be a grand lady. But Mary was peril- 
ously near the brink on either side ; and as it 
was to be her lucky fate at last to sit down to 
a plentiful but workaday life at Chowton Farm, 
she ought to have been kept away from the maun- 
dering idleness of Lady Ushant's lodgings at 
Cheltenham. * But Mary heard nothing of this 
during these two days, Mrs. Masters bestowing 
the load of her wisdom upon her unfortunate 
husband. 

Reginald Morton had been twice over at Mrs. 
Masters's house with reference to the proposed 
journey. Mrs. Masters was hardly civil to him, 
as he was supposed to be among the enemies ; 
but she had no suspicion that he himself was the 
enemy of enemies. Had she entertained such 
an idea she might have reconciled herself to it, 
as the man was able to support a wife; and by 
such a marriage she would have been at once 
relieved from all further charge. In her own 
mind she would have felt very strongly that Mary 
had chosen the wrong man, and thrown herself 
into the inferior mode of life. But her own dif- 
ficulties in the matter would have been solved. 
There was, however, no dream of such a kind en- 
tertained by any one of the family. Reginald 
Morton was hardly regarded as a young man, 
and was supposed to be gloomy, misanthropic, 
and bookish. Mrs. Masters was not at all averse 
to the companionship for the journey, and Mr. 
Masters Was really grateful to one of the old fam- 
ily for being kind to his girl. 

" Nor must it be supposed that Mary herself had 
any expectations, or even any hopes. With ju- 
venile aptness to make much of the little things 
which had interested her, and prone to think 
more than was reasonable of any intercourse with 
a man who seemed to her to be so superior to 
others as Reginald Morton, she was anxious for 
an opportunity to set herself right with him about 
that scene at the bridge. She still thought that 
he was offended, and that she had given him 
cause for offense. He had condescended to 
make her a request to which she had acceded, 
and she had then not done as she had promised. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



67 



She thought she was sure that this was all she 
liad to say to him, and yet she was aware that 
slie was unnaturally excited at the idea of spend- 
ing three or four hours alone with him. The fly 
which was to take him to the railway station 
called for Mary at the attorney's door at ten 
o'clock, and the attorney handed her in. 

"It is very good of you indeed, Mr. Morton, 
to take so much trouble with my girl," said the 
attorney, really feeling what he said. 

"It is very good of you to trust her to me," 
said Reginald, also sincerely. Mary was still to 
him the girl who had been brought up by his 
aunt at Bragton, and not the fit companion for 
Larry Twentyman. 

Reginald Morton had certainly not made up 
his mind to ask Mary Masters to be his wife. 
Thinking of Mary Masters very often as he had 
done during the last two months, he was quite 
siire that he did not mean to marry at all. He 
did acknowledge to himself tliat, were lie to al- 
low himself to fall in love with any one, it would 
be with Mary Masters ; but for not doing so there 
were many reasons. He had lived so long alone 
that a married life would not suit him ; as a 
married man, he would be a poor man ; he him- 
self was averse to company, whereas most wom- 
en, prefer society. And then, as to this special 
girl, had he not reason for supposing that she 
preferred another man to him, and a man of 
such a class that the very preference showed her 
to be unfit to mate with him ? He also cozened 
liimself with an idea that it was well that he 
should have the opportunity which the journey 
would give him of apologizing for his previous 
rudeness to her. 

In the carriage they had the compartment to 
themselves^ with the exception of an old lady at 
the farther end who had a parrot in a cage, for 
which she had taken a first-class ticket. "I 
can't offer you this seat," said the old lady, " be- 
cause it has been booked and paid for for my 
bird." As neither of the new passengers had 
shown the slightest wish for the seat, the com- 
munication was perhaps unnecessary. Neither 
of the two had any idea of separating from the 
other for the sake of the old lady's company. 

They had before them a journey of thirty miles 
on one railway, then a stop of half an hour at 
the Hinxton Junction, and then another journey 
of about equal length. In the first hour very 
little was said that might not have been said in 
the presence of Lady Ushant, or even of Mrs. 
Masters, There might be a question whether, 
upon the whole, the parrot had not the best of 
the conversation ; as the bird, which the old 
lady declared to be the wonder of his species, 
repeated the last word of nearly every sentence 
spoken either by our friends or by the old lady 
herself. 

" Don't you think you'd be less liable to cold 
with that window closed ?" the old lady said to 
Mary. 

"Cosed, cosed, cosed," said the bird, and 
Morton was, of course, constrained to shut the 
window. 

"He is a wonderful bird," said the old lady. 

" Wonderful bird, wonderful bird, wonderful 
bird," said tjie parrot, who was quite at home 
with this expression. 

" We shall be able to get some lunch at Hinx- 
ton," said Reginald. 



"Inston," screamed the bird; "caw, caw, 
caw. " 

"He's worth a deal of money," said the old 
lady. 

"Deal o' money, deal o' money," repeated the 
bird, as he scrambled round the wire-cage with 
a tremendous noise, to the great triumph of the 
old lady. 

No doubt the close attention which the bird 
paid to every thing that passed, and the presence 
of the old lady as well, did for a time interfere 
with their conversation. But after a while the 
old lady was asleep, and the bird, having once 
or twice attempted to imitate the somnolent 
sounds which his mistress was making, seemed 
also to go to sleep himself. Then Reginald, be- 
ginning with Lady Ushant and the old Morton 
family generally, gradually got the conversation 
round to Bragton and the little bridge. He had 
been very stern when he had left her there, and 
he knew also that at that subsequent interview, 
when he had brought Lady Ushant's note to her 
at her father's house, he had not been cordially 
kind to her. Now they were thrown together for 
an hour or so in the closest companionship, and 
he wished to make her comfortable and happy. 
"I suppose you remember Bragton," he said. 

"Every path, and almost every tree about the 
place. " 

" So do I. I called there the other day. 
Family quarrels are so silly, you know." 

"Did you see Mr. Morton ?" 

"No; and he hasn't returned my visit yet. I 
don't know whether he will, and I don't much 
mind whether he does or not. That old woman 
is there, and she is very bitter against me. I 
don't care about the people, but I am sorry that 
I can not see the place." 

" I ought to have walked with you that day," 
she said, in a very low tone. The parrot opened 
his eye, and looked at them as though he were 
striving to catch his cue. 

"Of course you ought." But as he said this 
he smiled, and there was no offense in his voice. 
" I dare say you didn't guess how much I thought 
of it. And, then, I was a bear to you. I always 
am a bear when I am not pleased." 

"Peas, peas, peas," said the parrot. 

" I shall be a bear to that brute of a bird be- 
fore long." 

" What a very queer bird he is !" 

"He's a public nuisance, and so is the old 
lady who brought him here." This was said 
quite in a whisper. " It is very odd, Miss Mas- 
ters, but you are literally the only person in all 
Dillsborough in regard to whom I have any gen- 
uine feehng of old friendship. " 

"You must remember a great many." 

" But I did not know any well enough. I 
was too young to have seen much of your father. 
But when I came back at that time, you and I 
were always together." 

" Gedder, gedder, gedder," said the parrot. 

"If that bird goes on like that III speak to 
the guard," said Morton, with affected anger. 

"Polly mustn't talk," said the old lady, wak- 
ing up. 

"Tok, tok, tok, tok," screamed the parrot. 
Then the old lady threw a shawl over him, and 
again went to sleep. 

" If I behaved badly I beg your pardon," said 
Mary. 



G8 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



"That's just what I wanted to say to you, 
Miss Masters, only a man never can do those 
things as well as a lady. I did behave badly, 
and I do beg your pardon. Of course I ought 
to have asked Mr. Twentyman to come with us. 
I know that he is a very good fellow." 

'•Indeed he is," said Mary Masters, with all 
the emphasis in her power. 

"Deedy is, deedy is, deedy is, deedy is," re- 
peated the parrot in a very angry voice about a 
dozen times under his shawl ; and while the old 
lady was remonstrating with her too talkative 
companion their tickets were taken, and they ran 
into the Hinxton station. 

"If the old lady is going on to Cheltenham 
we'll travel third-class, before we'll sit in the 
same carriage again with that bird," said Mor- 
ton, laughing, as he took Mary into the refresh- 
ment-room. But the old lady did not get into 
the same compartment as they started, and the 
last that was heard of the parrot at Hinxton was 
a quarrel between him and the guard as to cer- 
tain i-ailway privileges. 

When they had got back into the railway-car- 
riage, Morton was very anxious to ask whether 
she was in truth engaged to marry the young 
man as to whose good-fellowship she and the 
parrot had spoken up so emphatically, but he 
hardly knew how to put tlie question. And 
were she to declare that she was engaged to 
him, what should he say then ? Would he not 
be bound to congratulate her ? And yet it would 
be impossible that any word of such congratula- 
tion should pass his lips. " You will stay a month 
at Cheltenham ?" he said. 

" Your aunt was kind enough to ask me for 
so long." 

" I shall go back on Saturday. If I were to 
stay longer, I should feel myself to be in her 
way. And I have come to live a sort of her- 
mit's life. I hardly know how to sit down and 
eat my dinner in company, and have no idea of 
seeing a human being before two o'clock." 

"What do you do with yourself?" 

"I rush in and out of the garden, and spend 
my time between my books and my flowers and 
my tobftcco-pipes." 

"Do you mean to live always hke that?" she 
asked, in perfect innocency. 

"I tliink so. Sometimes I doubt whether it's 
wise." 

"I don't think it wise at all," said Marv. 

"Why not?" 

" People should live together, I think." 

"You mean that I ought to have a wife." 

"No, I didn't mean that. Of course that 
must be just as you might come to like any one 
well enough. But a person need not shut him- 
self up and be a hermit because he is not mar- 
ried. Lord Ruiford is not married, and he goes 
everywhere. " 

"He has money and property, and is a man 
of pleasure." 

" And your cousin, Mr. John Morton?" 

" He is essentially a man of business, which I 
never could have been. And they say he is going 
to be married to that Miss Trefoil, who lias been 
staying there. Unfortunately, I have never had 
any thing that I need do in all my life, and 
therefore I have shut myself up, as you call it. I 
wonder what your life will be." Mary blushed, 
and said nothing. 



" If there were any thing to tell, I wish I knew 
it." 

"There is nothing to tell." 

"Nothing?" 

She thought a moment before she answered 
him, and then she said, " Nothing. What should 
I have to tell ?" she added, trying to laugh. 

He remained for a few minutes silent, and then 
put his head out toward her as he spoke. "I 
was afraid that you might have to tell that you 
were engaged to marry Mr. Twentyman." 

"I am not." 

"Oh, I am so glad to hear it !" 

' ' I don't know why you should be glad. If I 
had said I was, it would have been veiy uncivil 
if you hadn't declared yourself glad to hear that." 

"Then I must have been uncivil, for I couldn't 
have done it. Knowing how my aunt loves you, 
knowing what she thinks of you, and what she 
would think of such a match ; remembering my- 
self what I do of you ; I could not have con- 
gratulated j'^ou on your engagement to a man 
whom I think so much inferior to yourself in ev- 
ery respect. Now you know it all — why I was 
angry at the bridge, why I was hardly civil to 
you at your father's house, and, to tell the truth, 
why I have been so anxious to be alone with you 
for half an hour. If you think it an offense that 
I should take so much interest in you, I will beg 
your pardon for that also. " 

"Oh no!" 

"I have never spoken to my aunt about it, 
but I do not think that she would have been con- 
tented to hear that you were to become the wife 
of Mr. Twentyman." 

What answer she was to make to this, or 
whether she was to make any, she had not de- 
cided, when they were interrupted by the re-ap- 
pearance of the old lady and the bird. She was 
declaring to the guard at the window, that, as 
she had paid for a first-class seat for her parrot, 
she would get into any carriage she liked in which 
there were two empty seats. Her bird had been 
ill-treated by some scurrilous, ill-conditioned 
travelers, and she had therefore returned to the 
comparative kindness of her former companions. 
" They threatened to put him out of the window, 
sir," said the old woman to Morton, as she was 
forcing her way in. 

"Windersir, windersir," said the parrot. 

"I hope he'll behave himself here, ma'am," 
said Morton. 

" Heremam, heremara, heremam," said the 
parrot. 

"Now go to bed like a good bird," said the 
old lady, putting her shawl over the cage, where- 
upon the parrot made a more diabolical noise 
than ever under the curtain. 

Mary felt that there was no more to be said 
about Mr. Twentyman and her hopes and pros- 
pects, and for the moment she was glad to be 
left in peace. The old lady and the parrot con- 
tinued their conversation till they had all arrived 
in Cheltenham ; and Mary, as she sat alone 
thinking of it afterward, might perhaps feel a soft 
regret that Reginald Morton had been interrupt- 
ed bv the talkative animal. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



GO 



CHAPTER XXVIII. 

MOUNSER GREEN. 

"So Peter Boyd is to go to Washington in 
the Paragon's place, and Jack Slade goes to Vi- 
enna, and young Palliser is to get Slade's berth 
at Lisbon." 

This information was given by a handsome 
young man known as Mounser Green, about six 
feet liigh, wearing a velvet shooting-coat — more 
properly called an office -coat, from its present 
uses — who had just entered a spacious, well-car- 
peted, comfortable room, in which three other 
gentlemen were sitting at their different tables. 
This was one of the rooms in the Foreign Office, 
and looked out into St. James's Park. Mounser 
Green was a distinguished clerk in that depart- 
ment, and distinguished also in various ways, 
being one of the fashionable young men about 
town, a great adept at private tlieatricals, re- 
markable as a billiard-player at his club, and a 
contributor to various magazines. At this mo- 
ment he had a cigar in his mouth, and when he 
entered the room he stood with his back to the 
fire, ready for conversation, and looking very un- 
like a clerk who intended to do any work. But 
there was a general idea that Mounser Green was 
invaluable to the Foreign Office. He could speak 
and write two or three foreign languages ; he 
could do a spurt of work — ten hours at a sitting 
when required ; he was ready to go through fire 
and water for his chief; and was a gentleman 
all round. Though still nominally a young man 
— being, perhaps, thirty-five years of age — he had 
entered the service before competitive examina- 
tion had assumed its present shape, and had there- 
foi'e the gifts which were required for his special 
position. Some critics on the Civil Service were 
no doubt apt to find fault with Mounser Green. 
Wiien called upon at his office, he was never seen 
to be doing any thing, and he alwa^'s had a cigar 
in his mouth. These gentlemen found out, too, 
that he never entered his office till half- past 
twelve, perhaps not having also learned that he 
Avas generally there till nearly seven. No doubt, 
during that time he read a great many newspa- 
pers and wrote a great many private notes — on 
official paper! But there may be a question 
whether even these employments did not help 
to make Mounser Green tlie valuable man he 
was. 

" What a lounge for Jack Slade !" said young 
Hoffmann. 

"I'll tell you wlio it won't be a lounge for. 
Green," said Archibald Currie, the clerk who 
held the second authority among them. ' ' What 
will Bell Trefoil think of going to Patagonia?" 

" That's all off," said Mounser Green. 

"I don't think so," said Charley Glossop, one 
of the numerous younger sons of Lord Glossop. 
"She was staying only the other day down at 
the Paragon's place in Rufford, and they went 
together to my cousin Rufford's house. His sis- 
tei-— that's Lady Penwether — told me they were 
certainly engaged then." 

"That was before the Paragon had been 
named for Patagonia. To tell you a little bit of 
my own private mind, which isn't scandal," said 
Mounser Green, " because it is only given as opin- 
ion, I think it just possible that the Paragon has 
taken this very uncomfortable mission because it 
offered him some cliancc of escape. " 



"Then he has more sense about him than I 
gave him credit for," said Archibald Currie. 

"Why should a man like Morton go to Pata- 
gonia?" continued Green. "He has an inde- 
pendent fortune, and doesn't want the mone}'. 
He'd have been sure to have something comfort- 
able in Europe very soon if he had waited, and 
was much better off second at a place like Wash- 
ington. I was quite surprised when he took it." 
"Patagonia isn't bad at all," said Currie. 
"That depends on whether a man lias got 
money of his own. When I heard about the 
Paragon and Bell Trefoil at Washington, I knew 
there had been a mistake made. He didn't know 
what he was doing. I'm a poor man, but I 
wouldn't take her with five thousand pounds a 
year, settled on myself. " Poor Mounser Green ! 
"I think she's the handsomest girl in Lon- 
don," said Hoffmann, who was a young man of 
' German parentage, and perhaps of German taste. 
"That may be,"continued Green ; " but, heav- 
j en and eaith ! what a life she would lead a man 
j like the Paragon ! He's found it out, and there- 
fore thought it well to go to South America. 
' She has declined already, I'm told ; but he means 
: to stick to the mission." During all this time 
i Mounser Green was smoking his cigar, with his 
^ back to the fire, and the other clerks looked as 
j though tiiey had nothing to do but talk about 
the private affairs of ministers abroad and their 
friends. Of course it will be understood that 
I since we last saw John Morton the position of 
' Minister Plenipotentiary at Patagonia had been 
' offered to him, and that he had accepted the place, 
in spite of Bragton and of Arabella Trefoil. 

At that moment a card was handed to Moun- 
ser Green by a messenger, who was desired to 
' show the gentleman up. "It's the Paragon him- 
' self," said Green. 

I "We'll make him tell us whether he's going 
out single or double," said Archibald Currie. 
j "After what the Rufford people said to me, 
I'm sure he's going to marry her," said young 
Glossop. No doubt Lady Penwether had been 
anxious to make it understood by every one 
connected with the family that if any gossip 
should be heard about Rufford and Arabella 
Trefoil, there was nothing in it. 

Then the Paragon was shown into the room, 
and Mounser Green and the young men were 
delighted to see him. Colonial governors at 
their seats of government, and ministers pleni- 
potentiary in their embassadorial residences, are 
very great persons indeed; and when met in 
society at home, with the stars and ribbons which 
are common among them now, they are less in- 
deed, but still something. But at the Colonial 
and Foreign offices in London, among the assist- 
ant secretaries and clerks, they are hardly more 
than common men. All the gingerbread is gone 
there. His excellency is no more than Jones, 
and the representative, or alter ego of royalty, 
mildly asks little favors of the junior clerks. 

"Lord Drummond only wants to know what 
you wish, and it shall be done," said Mounser 
Green. Lord Drummond was the Minister for 
Foi-eign Affairs of the day. " I hope I need 
hardly say that we were delighted that you ac- 
cepted the offer. " 

"One doesn't like to refuse a step upwai'd," 
said Morton ; " otherwise Patagonia isn't exact- 
ly the place one would like."* 



70 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



"Veiy good climate," said Cun-ie. "Ladies 
I have known who have gone there have enjoyed 
it very much." 

' ' A little rough, I suppose. " 

"They didn't seem to say so. Young Bart- 
tetot took his wife out there, just married. He 
liked it. There wasn't much society, but they 
didn't care about that just at first." 

"Ah, I'm a single man," said Morton, laugh- 
ing. He was too good a diplomate to be pumped 
in that simple way by such a one as Archibald 
Currie. 

"You'll like to see Lord Drummond. He is 
here, and will be glad to shake hands with you. 
Come into my room." Then Mounser Green 
led the way into a small inner sanctum in which 
it may be presumed that he really did his work. 
It was here, at any rate, that he wrote the notes 
on official note-paper. 

" They haven't settled as yet how they're to 
be off it," said Currie, in a whisper, as soon as 
the two men were gone, " but I'll bet a five-pound 
note that Bell Trefoil doesn'c go out to Patagonia 
as his wife." 

"We know the Senator here well enough." 
This was said in the inner room by Mounser 
Green to Morton, who had breakfasted with the 
Senator that morning, and had made an appoint- 
ment to meet him at the Foreign Office. The 
Senator wanted to secure a seat for himself at 
the opening of Parliament, which was appointed 
to take place in the course of the next month ; 
and, being a member of the Committee on For- 
eign Affairs in the American Senate, of course 
thought himself entitled to have things done for 
him by the Foreign Office clerks. " Oh yes, I'll 
see him. Lord Drummond will get him a seat 
as a matter of course. How is he getting on 
with your neighbor at Dillsborough ?" 

" So you've heard of that." 

"Heard of it! who hasn't heard of it ?" At 
this moment the messenger came in again, and 
the Senator was announced. " Lord Dram- 
mond will manage about the seats in the House 
of Lords, Mr. Gotobed. Of course, he'll see you 
if you wish it ; but I'll take a note of it. " 

"If you'll do that, Mr. Green, I shall be fixed 
np straight. And I'd a great deal sooner see 
you than his lordship." 

"That's very flattering, Mr. Gotobed, but I'm 
sure I don't know why." 

"Because Lord Drummond always seems to 
me to have more on hand than he knows how to 
get through, and you never seem to have any 
thing to do." 

' ' That's not quite so flattering, and would be 
killing, only that I feel that your opinion is 
founded on error. Mens conscia recti, Mr. Go- 
tobed." 

' ' Exactly. I understand English pretty well ; 
better, as far as I can see, than some of those I 
meet around me here ; but I don't go beyond 
that, Mr. Green." 

"I merely meant to observe, Mr. Gotobed, 
that as, within my own breast, I am conscious 
of my zeal and diligence in her majesty's service, 
your shafts of satire pass me by without hurting 
me. Shall I offer you a cigar ? A candle burn- 
ed at both ends is soon consumed." It was 
quite clear that as quickly as the Senator got 
through one end of his cigar by the usual proc- 
ess of burning, so quickly did he eat the other 



end. But he took that which Mounser Green 
offered him without any displeasure at the allu- 
sion. "I'm sorry to say that I haven't a spit- 
toon," said Mounser Green, "but the whole 
fire-place is at your service." The Senator could 
hardly have heard this, as it made no difference 
in his pi'actice. 

Morton at this moment was sent for by the 
Secretary of State, and the Senator expressed 
his intention of waiting for him in Mr. Green's 
room. "How does the great Goarly case get 
on, Mr. Gotobed ?" asked the clerk. 

' ' Well, I don't know tliat it's getting on very 
much." 

" You are not growing tired of it, Senator ?" 

" Not by any means. But it's getting itself 
complicated, Mr. Green. I mean to see the end 
of it ; and if I'm beat, why, I can take a beating 
as well as another man." 

" You begin to think you'll be beat ?" 

"I didn't say so, Mr. Green. It is very hard 
to understand all the ins and outs of a case like 
that in a foreign country." 

"Then, I shouldn't try it, Senator-." 

"There I differ. It is my object to learn all 
I can." 

"At any rate, I shouldn't pay for the lesson, 
as you are like to do. What'U the bill be — four 
hundred dollars ?" 

"Never mind, Mr. Green. If you'll take the 
opinion of a good deal older man than yourself, 
and one who has perhaps worked harder, you'll 
understand that there's no knowledge got so 
thoroughly as that for which a man pays." Soon 
after this Morton came out from the great man's 
room, and went away in company with the Sena- 
tor. 



CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE senator's LETTER. 

Soon after this Senator Gotobed went down, 
alone, to Dillsborough, and put himself up at The 
Bush Inn. Although he had by no means the 
reputation of being a rich man, he did not seem 
to care much what money he spent in furthering 
any object he had taken in hand. He never 
knew how near he had been to meeting the direst 
of inhospitality at Mr. Eunciman's house. That 
worthy innkeeper, knowing well the Senator's 
sympathy with Goarly, Scrobby, and Bearside, 
and being heart and soul devoted to the Rufford 
interest, had almost refused the Senator the ac- 
commodation he wanted. It was only when 
Mrs. Runciman represented to him that she could 
charge ten shillings a day for the use of her sit- 
ting-room, and also that Lord Rufford himself 
had condescended to entertain the gentleman, 
that Runciman gave way. Mr. Gotobed would, 
no doubt, have delighted in such inhospitality. 
He would have gone to the second-rate inn, 
which was very second-rate indeed, and have ac- 
quired a further insight into British manners and 
British prejudices. As it was, he made himself 
at home in the best upstairs sitting-room at The 
Bush, and was quite unaware of the indignity of- 
fered to him when Mr. Runciman refused to send 
him up the best sherry. Let us hope that this 
refusal was remembered by the young woman in 
the bar when she made out the Senator's bill. 

He staid at Dillsborough for three or four 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



71 



days, during which he saw Goarly once, and 
Bearside on two or three occasions, and, more- 
over, handed to that busy attorney three bank- 
notes for five pounds each. Bearside was clever 
enough to make him believe tliat Goarly would 
certainly obtain serions damages from the lord. 
With Bearside he was fairly satisfied, thinking, 
however, that the man was much more illiterate 
and ignorant than the general run of lawyers in 
the United States ; but with Goarly he was by 
no means satisfied. Goarly endeavored to keep 
out of his way, and could not be induced to come 
to him at The Bush. Three times he walked 
out to the house near Dillsborough Wood, on 
each of which occasions Mrs, Goarly pestered 
liim for money, and told him at great length the 
history of her forlorn goose. Scrobby, of whom 
he had heard, he could not see at all ; and he 
found that Bearside was very unwilling to say 
any thing about Scrobby. Scrobby, and the red 
hemngs, and the strychnine, and the dead fox 
were, according to Bearside, to be kept quite dis- 
tinct from the pheasants and the wheat. Bear- 
side declared over and over again that there was 
no evidence to connect his client with the de- 
mise of the fox. When asked whether he did 
not think that his client had compassed the 
death of the animal, he assured the Senator that 
in such matters he never ventured to think. 
"Let us go by the evidence, Mr. Gotobed," he 
said. 

"But I am paying my money for the sake of 
getting at the facts." 

"Evidence is facts, sir," said the attorney. 
*' Anyway, let us settle about the pheasants first." 

The condition of the Senator's mind may per- 
haps be best made known by a letter which he 
wrote from Dillsborough to his especial and 
well -trusted friend, Josiah Scroome, a member 
of the House of Representatives from his own 
State of Mikewa. Since he had been in En- 
gland he had written constantly to his friend, 
giving him the result of his British experiences. 

"Bush Inn, Dillsborongh, 
"Uflford Conuty, England, 

"December 16th, IS"-. 

"Mt bear Sik,— Since my last, I have en- 
joyed myself very well, and I am, I trust, be- 
ginning to understand something of the mode 
of thinking of this very peculiar people. That 
there should be so wide a difference between us 
Americans and these English, from whom we 
were divided, so to say, but the other day, is 
one of the most peculiar physiological phenome- 
na that the history of the world will have afford- 
ed. As fiir as I can hear, a German or even a 
Ei'enchman thinks much more as an Englishman 
thinks than does an American, Nor does this 
come mainly from the greater prevalence with 
us of democratic institutions. I do not think 
that any one can perceive in half an hour's Con- 
versation the difference between a Swiss and a 
German ; but I fancy, and I may say I flatter my- 
self, that an American is as easily distinguished 
from an Englishman as a sheep from a goat, or 
a tall man from one who is short. 

"And yet there is a pleasure in associating with 
those here of the highest rank which 1 find it 
hard to describe, and which perhaps I ought to 
regard as a pernicious temptation to useless lux- 
ury. There is an ease of manner with them 
which recalls with unfiivorable reminiscences the 



hard self-consciousness of the better class of our 
citizens. There is a story of an old hero who 
with his companions fell among beautiful women 
and luscious wine, but that the hero had been 
warned in time that they would all be turned 
into filthy animals should they yield to the al- 
lurements around them. The temptation here 
is, perhaps, the same. I am not a hero; and, 
though I too have been warned by the lessons 
I have learned under our happy Constitution, I 
feel that I might easily become one of the ani- 
mals in question. 

"And, to give them their due, it is better 
than merely beautiful women and luscious wine. 
There is a reality about them, and a desire to 
live up to their principles, which is very grand. 
Their principles are no doubt very bad : utterly 
antagonistic to all progress, unconscious alto- 
gether of the demand for progressive equality 
which is made by the united voices of suffering 
mankind. The man who is born a lord, and 
who sees a dozen serfs around him who have 
been born to be half- starved plowmen, thinks 
that God arranged it all, and that he is bound 
to maintain a state of things so comfortable to 
himself, as being God's vicegerent here on earth. 
But they do their work as vicegerents with an 
easy grace, and with sweet, pleasant voices and 
soft movements, which almost make a man doubt 
whether the Almighty has not, in truth, intended 
that such injustice should be permanent. That 
one man should be rich and another poor is a 
necessity, in the present imperfect state of civili- 
zation ; but that one man should be born to be 
a legislator, born to have every thing, born to be 
a tyrant, and should think it all right, is to me 
miraculous. But the greatest miracle of all is 
that they who are not so born, who have been 
born to suffer the reverse side, should also think 
it to be all right. 

"With us it is necessary that a man, to stiine 
in society, should have done something, or should, 
at any rate, have the capacity of doing something. 
But here the greatest fool that you meet will 
shine, and will be admitted to be brilliant, sim- 
ply because he has possessions. Such a one will 
take his part in conversation, though he knows 
nothing, and, when inquired into, he will own 
that he knows nothing. To know any thing is 
not his line in life. But he can move about, and 
chatter like a child of ten, and amuse himself 
from morning to night with various empty play- 
things, and be absolutely proud of his life! 

" I have lately become acquainted with a cer- 
tain young lord here of this class who has treated 
me with great kindness, although I have taken it 
into my head to oppose him as to a matter in 
which he is very keen, I ventured to inquire of 
him as to the pursuits of his life. He is a lord, 
and therefore a legislator ; but he made no scru- 
ple to tell me that he never went near the Cham- 
ber, in which it is his privilege to have a seat. 
But his party does not lose his support. Though 
he never goes near the place, he can vote, and is 
enabled to trust his vote to some other more am- 
bitious lord who does go there. It required the 
absolute evidence of personal information from 
those who are themselves concerned to make 
me believe that legislation in Great Britain could 
be carried on after such a fashion as this ! Then 
he told me what he did do. All the winter he 
hunts and shoots, going about to other rich men's 



72 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



houses when there is no longer sufficient for him 
to shoot left on his own estate. That lasts him 
from the 1st of September to the end of March, 
and occupies all his time. August he spends in 
Scotland, also shooting other animals During 
the other months he fishes, and plays cricket and 
tennis, and attends races, and goes about to par- 
ties in London. His evenings he spends at a 
card-table, when he can get friends to play with 
him. It is the employment of his life to fit in 
his amusements so that he may not have a dull 
day. Wherever he goes he carries his wine with 
him, and his valet and his grooms, and if he 
thinks there is any thing to fear, his cook also. 
He very rarely opens a book. He is more igno- 
rant than a boy of fifteen with us, and yet he 
manages to have somethjng to say about every 
thing. When his ignorance has been made as 
clear as the sun at noon -day, lie is no whit 
ashamed. One would say that such a life would 
break the heart of any man ; but, upon my word, 
I doubt whether I ever came across a human be- 
ing so self-satisfied as this young lord. 

"I have come down here to support the case 
of a poor man who is, I think, being trampled 
upon by this do-nothing legislator. But I am 
bound to say that the lord in his kind is very 
much better than the poor man in his. Such a 
wretched, squalid, lying, cowardly creature I did 
not think that even Enghind could produce. 
And yet the man has a property in land on which 
he ought to be able to live in humble comfort. 
I feel sure that I have leagued myself with a ras- 
cal; whereas I believe the lord, in spite of his 
ignorance and his idleness, to be honest. But 
yet the man is being hardly used, and has had 
the spirit, or rather, perhaps, has been instigated 
by others, to rebel. His crops have been eaten 
up by the lord's pheasants, and the lord, exercis- 
ing plenary power as though he were subject to 
no laws, will only pay what compensation he iiim- 
self chooses to award. The whole country here 
is in arms against the rebel, thinking it monstrous 
that a man living in a hovel should contest such 
a point with the owner of half a dozen palaces. 
I have come forward to help the man, for the 
sake of seiug how the matter will go ; and I have 
to confess that though those under the lord have 
treated me as though I were a miscreant, the 
lord himself and his friends have been civil 
enough. 

"I say what I think wherever I go, and I do 
not find it taken in bad part. In that respect 
we might learn something from them. When a 
Britisher over in the States says what he thinks 
about us, we are apt to be a little rough with him. 
I have, indeed, known towns in which he couldn't 
speak out with personal safety. Here there is 
no danger of that kind. I am getting together 
the materials for a lecture on British institutions 
in general, in which 1 shall certainly speak my 
mind plainly, and I think I shall venture to de- 
liver it in London before I leave for New York 
in the course of next spring. I will, hovvever, 
write to you again before that time comes. 

"Believe me to be, dear sir, 

" With much sincerity, yours truly, 

"Elias Gotobed. 

" The Hon'ble Josiah Scroome, 125 Q Street, 
"Miuuesota Avenue, Washington." 

On the morning of the Senator's departure 



from Dillsborough, Mr. Runciman met him stand- 
ing under the covered way leading from the inn 
yard into the street. He was waiting for the om- 
nibus which was being driven about the town, 
and which was to call for him and take him down 
to the railway-station. Mr. Runciman had not 
as yet spoken to him since he had been at the inn, 
and had not even made himself personally known 
to his guest. 

" So, sir, yon are going to leave us," said the 
landlord, with a smile, which was intended prob- 
ably as a smile of triumph. 

"Yes, sir," said the Senator. "It's about 
time, I guess, that I should get back to Lon- 
don." 

" I dare say it is, sir," said the landlord. " I 
dare say you've seen enough of JMr. Goarly by 
this time." 

" That's as may be. I don't know whom I 
have the pleasure of speaking to." 

"My name is Runciman, sir. I'm the land- 
lord here." 

"I hope I see you well, Mr. Runciman. I 
have about come to an end of my business here." 

"I dare say you have, sir. 1 should say so. 
Perhaps I might express an opinion that yon 
never came across a greater blackguard thnn 
Goarly either in this country or your own." 

"That's a strong opinion, Mr.Runciman." 

"It's the general opinion here, sir. I should 
have thought you'd found it out before this." 

"I don't know that I am prepared at this mo- 
ment to declare all that I have found out." 

"I thought you'd have been tired of it by this 
time, Mr. Gotobed." 

" Tired of what ?" 

"Tired of the wrong side, sir." 

"I don't know that I'm on the wrong side. 
A man may be in the right on one point, even 
though his life isn't all that it ought to be." 

"That's true, sir; but if they told you all that 
they knew up the street," and Runciman point- 
ed to the part of the town in which Bearside's 
office was situated, "I should have thought j'ou 
would have understood who was going to win 
and who was going to lose. Good-day, sir ; I 
hope you'll have a pleasant journey. Much 
obliged to you for your patronage, sir;" and 
Runciman, still smiling unpleasantly, touched his 
hat as the Senator got into the omnibus. 

The Senator was not very happy as to the 
Goarly business. He had paid some money, 
and had half promised more, and had found out 
that he was in a boat with thoroughly disreputa- 
ble persons. As he had said to the landlord, a 
man may have the right on his s-je in an action 
at law, though he be a knave or a rascal ; and 
if a lord be unjust to a poor man, the poor man 
should have justice done him, even though he be 
not quite a pattern poor man. But now he was 
led to believe, by what the landlord had said to 
him, that he was being kept in the dark, and 
that there were facts generally known that he 
did not know. He had learned something of 
English manners and English institutions by his 
interference, but there might be a question wheth- 
er he was not paying too dearly for his whistle. 
And there was growing upon him a feeling that, 
before he had done, he would have to blush for 
his colleagues. 

As the omnibus went aw.iy. Dr. Nupper join- 
ed Mr. Runciman under the arciiwav. "I'm 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



73 



blessed if I can understand that man," said Run- 
ciman. " What is it he's after ?" 

"Notoriety," said the doctor, with the air of 
a man who has completely solved a difficult ques- 
tion, 

"He'll have to pay for it, and that pretty 
smart," said Runciman. "I never heai'd of 
such a foolish thing in all my life. What the 
dickens is it to him ? One can understand Bear- 
side and Scrobby too. When a fellow has some- 
tiling to get, one does understand it. But why 
an old fellow like that should come down from 
the moc* to pay ever so much money for such a 
man as Goarly. is what I don't understand." 

"Notoriety," said the doctor. 

"He evidently don't know that Nickem has 
got round Goarly," said the landlord. 



CHAPTER XXX. 



AX CHELTENHAM. 



The month at Cheltenham was passed very 
quietly, and would have been a very happy month 
with Mary Masters, but that tliere grew upon her 
from day to day increasing fears of what she 
would have to undergo when she returned to 
Dillsborough. At the moment when she was 
hesitating with Larry Twentyman, when she beg- 
ged him to wait six months, and tiien at last 
promised to give him an answer at the end of 
two, she had worked herself up to think that it 
might possibly be her duty to accept her lover 
for the sake of her family. At any rate, she had 
at that moment thought that the question of duty 
ought to be further considered, and therefore she 
had vacillated. When the two months' delay 
was accorded to her, and within that period tlie 
privilege of a long absence from Dillsborough, 
she put the trouble aside for a while with the 
common feeling that the chapter of accidents 
might do something for her. Before she had 
reached Cheltenham, the chapter of accidents 
had done much. When Reginald Morton told 
her that he could not have congratulated her on 
such prospects, and had explained to her why in 
truth he had been angry at the bridge, bow he 
had been anxious to be alone with her that he 
might learn whether slie were really engaged to 
this man, then she had known that her answer to 
Larry Twentyman at»the end of the two months 
must be a positive refusal. 

But, as she became aware of this, a new trou- 
ble arose, and harassed her very soul. When 
she had asked for the six months, she had not 
at the moment been aware, she had not then 
felt, that a girl who asks for time is supposed to 
have already sui-rendered. But since she had 
made that unhappy request, the conviction had 
grown upon her. She read it in every word her 
step-mother said to her, and in her father's man- 
ner. The very winks and hints and little jokes 
which fell from her younger sisters told her that 
it was so. She could see around her the satis- 
faction which had come from the settlement of 
that difficult question — a satisfaction which was 
perhaps more apparent with her father than even 
with the others. Then she knew what she had 
done, and remembered to have heard that a girl 
wiio expresses' a doubt is supposed to have gone 
beyond doubting. While she was still at DUIf- 



borough, there was a feeling that no evil would 
arise from this if she could at last make up her 
mind to be Mrs. Twentyman ; but when the set- 
tled conviction came upon her, after hearing 
Reginald Morton's words, then she was mucli 
troubled. 

He staid only a couple of days at Cheltenham, 
and during that time said very little to her. He 
certainly spoke no word which would give her a 
right to think that he himself was attached to 
her. He had been interested about her, as was 
his aunt. Lady Ushant, because she had been 
known, and her mother had been known, by the 
old Mortons. But there was nothing of love in 
all that. She had never supposed that there 
would be : and yet there was a vague feeling in 
her bosom that as he had been strong in express- 
ing his objection to Mr. Twentyman, there niigiit 
have been something more to stir him than the 
memory of those old days at Bragton. 

" To my thinking, there is a sweetness about 
her which I have never seen equaled in any j'^oung 
woman." This was said by Lady Ushant to her 
nephew, after Mary had gone to bed, on the night 
before he left. 

"One would suppose," he answered, "that 
yon wanted me to ask her to be my wife." 

"I never want any thing of that kind, Reg. 
I never make in such matters, or mar, if I can 
help it." 

"There is a man at Dillsborough wants to 
marry her." 

" I can easily believe that there should Ife two 
or three. Who is the man ?" 

" Do you remember old Twentyman, at Chow- 
ton?" 

"He was our nearest neighbor. Of course I 
remember him. I can remember Avell when they 
bought the land." 

"It is his son." 

" Surely he can hardly be worthy of her, Reg." 

"And yet they say he is very worthy. I have 
asked about him, and he is not a bad fellow. He 
keeps his money, and has ideas of living decent- 
ly. He doesn't drink or gamble. But he's not 
a gentleman, or any thing like one. I should 
think he never opens a book. Of course it would 
be a degradation." 

"And what does Mary say herself?" 

"I fancy she has refused him." Then he 
added, after a pause, " Indeed, I know she has." 

" How should you know ? Has she told you ?" 
In answer to this, he only nodded his head at the 
old lady. "There must have been close friend- 
ship, Reg, between you two when she told you 
that. I hope yon have not made her give up one 
suitor by leading her to love another who does 
not mean to ask her." 

" I certainly have not done that," said Reg. 
Men may often do much without knowing that 
they do any thing ; and such probably had been 
the case with Reginald Morton during the journey 
from Dillsborough to Cheltenham. 

" What would her father wish ?" 

"They all want her to take the man." 

"How can she do better ?" 

" Would you have her marry a man who is not 
a gentleman, whose wife will never be visited by 
other ladies — in maiTying whom, she would go 
altogether down into another and a lower world ?" 

This was a matter on which Lady Ushant and 
her nephew had conversed often, and he thought 



74 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



he knew her to be thoroughly wedded to the 
privileges which she believed to be attached to 
her birth. With him the same feeling was al- 
rbost the stronger, because he was so well aware 
of the blot upon himself caused by the lowness 
of his own father's marriage. But a man, he 
held, could raise a woman to his own rank, 
whereas a woman must accept the level of her 
husband. 

"Bread and meat and chairs and tables are 
very serious things, Reg." 

"You would, then, recommend her to take 
this man, and pass altogether out of your own 
sphere. " 

" What can I do for her? I am an old wom- 
an, who will be dead probably before the first 
five years of her married life have passed over 
her. And as for recommending, I do not know 
enough, to recommend any thing. Does she like 
the man ?" 

" I am sure she would feel herself degraded by 
marrying him." 

" I trust she will never live to feel herself de- 
graded. I do not believe that she could do any 
thing that she thought would degrade her. But 
I think that you and I had better leave her to 
herself in this matter." Further on in the same 
evening, or rather late in the night — for they 
had then sat talking together for hours over the 
fire — she made a direct statement to him. 
"When I die, Reg, I have but five thousand 
pounds to leave behind me, and this I have di- 
vided between you and her. I shall not tell her, 
because I might do more harm than good. But 
you may know. " 

"That would make no difference to me," he 
said. 

"Very likely not, but I wish you to know it. 
What troubles me is, that she will have to pay 
so much out of it for legacy duty. I might 
leave it all to you, and you could give it her. " 
An hoiiester, or more religious, or better woman 
than old Lady Ushant there was not in Chelten- 
ham, but it never crossed her conscience that 
it would be wrong to cheat the revenue. It 
may be doubted whether any woman has ever 
been brought to such honesty as that. 

On the next morning, Morton went away with- 
out saying another word in pi'ivate to Mary 
Masters, and she was left to her quiet life with 
the old lady. To an ordinary visitor nothing 
could have been less exciting, for Lady Ushant 
very seldom went out, and never entertained 
company. She was a tall, thin old lady, with 
bright eyes and gray hair, and a face that was 
still pretty, in spite of sunken eyes and sunken 
cheeks and wrinkled brow. There was ever 
present with her an air of melancholy which 
told a whole tale of the sadness of a long life. 
Her chief excitement was in her two visits to 
church on Sunday, and in the letter which she 
wrote every week to her nephew at Dillsbor- 
ough. Now she had her young friend with her, 
and that, too, was an excitement to her — and 
the more so since she had heard the tidings of 
Larry Twentyman's courtship. 

She made up her mind that she would not 
speak on the subject to her young friend, unless 
her young friend should speak to her. In the 
first three weeks nothing was said ; but four or 
five days before Mary's departure there came np 
a conversation about Dillsborough and Bragton. 



There had been many conversations about Dills- 
borough and Bragton, but in all of them the 
name of Lawrence Twentyman had been scru- 
pulously avoided. Each had longed to name 
him, and yet each had determined not to do so. 
But at length it was avoided no longer. Lady 
Ushant had spoken of Chowton Farm and the 
widow. Then Mary had spoken of the place 
and its inhabitants. "Mr. Twentyman comes 
a great deal to our house now," she said. 

' ' Has he any reason, my dear ?" 

" He goes with papa once a week to the club, 
and he sometimes lends my sister Kate#a pony. 
Kate is very fond of riding." 

"There is nothing else ?" 

"He has got to be intimate, and I think 
mamma likes him." 

"He is a good young man, then ?" 

"Very good," said Mary, with an emphasis. 

"And Chowton belongs to him?" 

"Oh yes, it belongs to him." 

"Some young men make such ducks and 
drakes of their property when they get it. " 

"They say that he's not like that at all. Peo- 
ple say that he understands farming very well, 
and that he minds every thing himself." 

"What an excellent young man! There is 
no other reason for his coming to your house, 
Mary ?" 

Then the sluice-gates were opened, and the 
whole story was told. Sitting there late into 
the night, Mary told it all as well as she knew 
how — all of it except in regard to any spark of 
love that might have fallen upon her in respect 
of Reginald Morton. Of Reginald Morton in 
her story, of course, she did not speak, but all 
the rest she declared. She did not love the 
man. She was quite sure of that. Though she 
thought so well of him, there was, she was quite 
sure, no feeling in her heart akin to love. Slie 
had promised to take time, because she had 
thought that she might perhaps be able to bring 
herself to marry him without loving him, to 
marry him because her father wished it, and 
because her going from home would be a relief 
to her step-mother and sisters, because it would 
be well for them all that she should be settled 
out of the way. But since that slie had made 
up her mind — she thought that she had quite 
made np her mind — that it would be impossible. 

"There is nobody else, Mary?" said Lady 
Ushant, putting her hand on Mary's lap. Mary 
protested that there was nobody else, without 
any consciousness that she was telling a false- 
hood. "And you are quite sure that you can 
not do it?" 

"Do you think that I ought, Lady Ushant?" 

" I should be very sorry to say that, my dear. 
A young woman in such a matter must be gov- 
erned by her feelings. Only he seems to be a 
deserving young man!" Mary looked askance 
at her friend, remembering at the moment Reg- 
inald Morton's assurance that his aunt would 
have disapproved of such an engagement. "But 
I never would persuade a girl to marry a man 
she did not love. I think it would be wicked. 
I always thought so." 

There was nothing about degradation in all 
this. It was quite clear to Mary that had she 
been able to tell Lady Ushant that she was head 
over ears in love with this young man, and that 
therefore she was going to marry him, her old 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



75 



friend would have found no reason to lament such 
an arrangement. Her old friend would have con- 
gratulated her. Lady Ushant evidently thought 
Larry Twentyman to be good enough as soon as 
she heard what Mary found herself compelled 
to say in the young man's favor. Maiy was al- 
most disappointed, but reconciled herself to it 
very quickly, telling herself that there was yet 
time for her to decide in favor of her lover if she 
could bring herself to do so. 

And she did try that night and all the next 
day, thinking that if she could so make up her 
mind she would declare her pui-pose to Lady 
Ushant before she left Cheltenham. But she 
could not do it, and in the struggle with herself 
at last she learned something of the truth. Lad}' 
Ushant saw nothing but what was right and 
proper in- a marriage with Lawrence Twenty- 
man ; but Reginald Morton had declared it to 
be improper, and therefore it was out of her 
reach. She could not do it. She could not 
bring herself, after what he had said, to look him 
in the face and tell iiira that she was going to 
become the wife of Larry Twentyman. Then 
she asked herself the fatal question, was she in 
love with Reginald Morton ? I do not think that 
she answered it in the affirmative, but siie be- 
came more and more sure that she could never 
marry Larry Twentyman. 

Lady Ushant declared herself to have been 
more than satisfied with the visit, and expressed 
a hope that it might be repeated in the next year. 
" I would ask you to come and make your home 
here wliile I have a home to offer you, only that 
you would be so much more buried here than at 
Dillsborough. And you have duties there which 
perhaps you ought not to leave. But come again 
when 3'our papa will spare you." 

On her journey back, she certainly was not 
very happy. There were yet three weeks want- 
ing to the time at wliich she would be bound to 
give her answer to Larry Twentyman ; but why 
should she keep the man waiting for three weeks 
when her answer was ready ? Her step-mother, 
she knew, would soon force her answer from her, 
and her father would be anxious to know what 
had been the result of her meditations. The 
real period of her reprieve had been that of her 
absence at Cheltenham, and that period was now 
coming to an end. At each station, as she pass- 
ed them, she remembered what Reginald Morton 
had been saying to her, and how their conversa- 
tion had been interrupted — and perhaps occa- 
sionally aided — by the absurdities of the bird. 
How sweet it had been to be near him, and to 
listen to his whispered voice? How great was 
the difference between him and that other young 
man, the smartness of whose apparel was now 
becoming peculiarly distasteful to her ? Certain- 
ly it would have been better for her not to have 
gone to Cheltenham if it was to be her fate to 
become Mrs. Twentyman. She was quite sure 
of that now. 

She came up from the Dillsborough ■ Station 
alone in The Bush omnibus. She had not ex- 
pected any one to meet her. Why sliould any 
one meet her ? The porter put up her box, and 
the omnibus left her at the door. But she re- 
membered well how she had gone down with 
Reginald Morton, and how delightful had been 
every little incident of the journey. Even to 
walk with him up and down the platform, while 



waiting for the train, had been a privilege. She 
thought of it as she got out of the carriage, and 
remembered that she had felt that the train had 
come too soon. 

At her own door her father met her and took 
her into the parlor, where the tea-things were 
spread, and where her sisters were already seat- 
ed. Her step-mother soon came in, and kissed 
her kindI3^ She was asked how she had enjoyed 
herself, and no disagreeable questions were put 
to her that night. No questions, at least, were 
asked which she felt herself bound to answer. 
After she was in bed, Kate came to her, and did 
say a word. " Well, Mary, do tell me. I won't 
tell any one." 

But Mary refused to speak a word. 



CHAPTER XXXL 

THE EUFFOKD CORRESPONDENCE. 

It might be surmised, from the description 
which Lord Rufford had given of his own po- 
sition to his sister and his sister's two friends, 
when he pictured himself as falling over the edge 
of the precipice while they hung on behind to save 
Iiim, that he was sufficiently aware of the inexpe- 
diency of the proposed intimacy with Miss Trefoil. 
Any one hearing him would have said that Miss 
Trefoil's chances in that direction were very 
poor — that a man seeing his danger so plain- 
ly, and so clearly understanding the nature of it, 
would certainly avoid it. But what he had said 
was no more than Miss Trefoil knew that he 
would say, or, at any rate, would think. Of 
course she had against her not only all his friends, 
but the man himself also, and his own fixed in- 
tentions. Lord Ruffbrd was not a marrying 
man ; which was supposed to signify that he in- 
tended to lead a life of pleasure till the necessity 
of providing an heir should be forced upon him, 
when he would take to himself a wife out of his 
own class in life, twenty years younger than him- 
self, for whom he would not care a straw. The 
odds against Miss Trefoil were of course great ; 
but girls have won even against such odds as 
these. She knew her own powers, and was 
aware that Lord Rufford was fond of feminine 
beauty and feminine flutter and feminine flattery, 
though he was not prepared to marry. It was 
quite possible that she might be able to dig such 
a pit for him that it would be easier for hira to 
marry her than to get out in any other way. 
Of course she must trust something to his own 
folly at first. Nor did she trust in vain. Be- 
foi'e her week was over at Mrs. Gore's, she re- 
ceived from him a letter, which, with the corre- 
spondence to which it immediately led, shall be 
given in this chapter. 

Letter No. 1. 

"Eafford, Sunday. 
"Mt dear Miss Trefoil, — We have had a 
sad house since you left us. Poor Caneback got 
better, and then worse, and then better, and at 
last died yesterday afternoon. And now there 
is to be the funeral ! The poor dear old boy 
seems to have had nobody belonging to him, and 
very little in the way of possessions. I never 
knew any thing of him except that he was, or 
had been, in the Blues, and that he was about 



76 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



the best man in England to hounds on a bad 
horse. It now turns out that his father made 
some money in India, a sort of commissary pur- 
veyor, and bought a commission for him twen- 
ty-five years ago. Every body knew him, but 
nobody knew any thing about him. Poor old 
Caneback ! I wish he had managed to die 
anywhere else, and I don't feel at all obliged to 
Purefoy for sending that brute of a mare here. 
He said something to me about that wretched 
ball — not altogether so wretched, was it ? But 
I didn't like what he said, and told him a bit of 
my mind. Now we're two for a while ; and I 
don't care for how long, unless he comes round. 

"I can not stand a funeral, and I shall get 
away from this. I will pay the bill, and Pure- 
foy may do the rest. I'm going for Christmas 
to Surbiton's, near Melton, with a string of 
horses. Surbiton is a bachelor, and, as there 
will be no young ladies to interfere with me, I 
shall have the more time to think of you. We 
shall have a little play there instead. I don't 
know whether it isn't the better of the two, as 
if one does get sat upon, one doesn't feel so con- 
foundedly sheep-faced. I have been out with 
the hounds two or three times since you went, 
as I could do no good staying with that poor fel- 
low, and there was a time when we thought he 
would have pulled through. I rode Jack one 
day, but he didn't carry me as well as he did 
you. I think he's more of a lady's horse. If I 
go to Mistletoe, I shall have some horses some- 
where in the neighborhood, and I'll make them 
take Jack, so that you may have a chance. 

" I never know how to sign myself to young 
ladies. Suppose I say that I am yours, 

"Any thing 3'ou like best, R." 

This was a much nicer letter than Arabella 
had expected, as there were one or two touches 
in it, apart from the dead man and the horses, 
which she thought might lead to something, and 
there was a tone in the letter which seemed to 
show that he was given to correspondence. She 
took care to answer it so that he should get her 
letter on his arrival at Mr. Surbiton's house. 
She found out Mr. Surbiton's address, and then 
gave a great deal of time to her letter. 

Letter No. 2. 

"Murray's Hotel, Green Street, 
"Thursday. 

" My dear Lord Rufford, — As we are 
passing through London on our way from one pur- 
gatory with the Gores to another purgatory with 
old Lady De Browne, and as mamma is asleep in 
her chair opposite, and as I have nothing else on 
earth to do, I think I might as well answer your 
letter. Poor old major! I am sorry for him, 
because he rode so bravely. I shall never forget 
his face as he passed us, and again as he rose 
upon his knee when tiiat horrid blow came! How 
very odd that he should have been like that, with- 
out any friends ! What a terrible nuisance to 
you ! I think you were quite wise to come away. 
I am sui-e I should have done so. I can't con- 
ceive what right Sir John Purefoy can have had 
to say any thing, for, after all, it was his doing. 
Do you remember when you talked of my riding 
Jemima ? When I think of it, I can hardly hold 
myself for shuddering. 

"It is so kind of you to think of me about 



Jack. lam never very fond of Mistletoe. Don't 
you be mischievous now, and go and tell the 
duchess I said so. But with Jack in the neigh- 
borhood, I can stand even her grace. I think I 
shall be there about the middle of January, but 
it must depend on all those people mamma is go- 
ing to. I shall have to make a great fight, for 
mamma thinks that ten days in the year at Mis- 
tletoe is all that duty requires. But I always 
stick up for my uncle, and mean in this instance 
to have a little of my own way. What are pa- 
rental commands, in opposition to Jack and all 
his glories ? Besides, mamma does not mean to 
go herself 

"I shall leave it to you to say whether the 
ball was ' altogether wretched.' Of course there 
must have been infinite vexation to you, and to 
us, who knew of it all, there was a feeling of 
deep sorrow. But perhaps we were able, some 
of us, to make it a little lighter for you. At any 
rate, I shall never forget Rufford, whether tlie 
memory be more pleasant or more painful. There 
are moments which one never can forget. 

" Don't go and gamble away your mone}' 
among a lot of men ; though I dare say you 
have got so much that it doesn't signify whether 
you lose some of it or not. I do think it is such 
a shame that a man like you should have such 
a quantity, and that a poor girl such as I am 
shouldn't have enough to pay for her hats and 
gloves. Why shouldn't I send a string of horses 
about just when I please? I believe I could 
make as good a use of them as you do, and then 
I could lend you Jack. I would be so good-nat- 
ured. You should have Jack every day you 
wanted him. 

" You must write and tell me what day you 
will be at Mistletoe. It is you that have tempt- 
ed me, and I don't mean to be there without you 
— or, I suppose I ought to say, without the horse. 
But of course you will have understood that. 
No )'oung lady ever is supposed to desire the 
presence of any young man. It would be very 
improper, of course. But a young man's Jack 
is quite another thing." 

[80 far her pen had flown with her ; but then 
there came the necessity for a conclusion wiiich 
must be worded in some peculiar way, as his had 
been so peculiar. How far might she dare to be 
affectionate without putting him on his guard? 
Or in what way might she be saucy, so as best 
to please him ? She tried two or three, and at 
last she ended her letter as follows :] 

" I have not had much experience in signing 
myself to young gentlemen, and am therefore 
quite in as great a diSiculty as you were ; but, 
though I can't swear that I am every thing that 
you like best, I will protest that I am pretty near- 
]}' what you ought to like — as far as young ladies 
go. In the mean time I certainly am, 

"Yours truly, A. T." 

"P.S. — Mind you write — about Jack; and ad- 
dress to Lady Smijth, Greenacres Manor, Hast- 
ings." ■ 

Tliere was a great de.1l in this letter which 
was not true. But, then, such ladies as Miss 
Trefoil can never afford to tell the truth. 

The letter was not written from Murray's Ho- 
tel, Lady Augustus having insisted on staying at 
certain lodgings in Orchard Street because her 
funds were low. But on previous occasions they 



THE AMEEICAN SENATOR: 



77 



had staid at Mun'ay's. And her mamma, instead 
of being asleep when the letter was written, was 
making up her accounts. And every word about 
Mistletoe had been false. She had not yet se- 
cured her invitation. She was hard at work on 
the attempt, liaving induced her father absolute- 
ly to beg the favor from liis brother. But at tiie 
present moment she was altogetlier diffident of 
success. Should she fail, she must only tell Lord 
Rutford that her mother's numerous engagements 
had at the last moment made her happiness im- 
possible. That she was going to Lady Smijth's 
was true, and at Lady Smijth's house slie received 
the following note from Lord Ruftbrd. It was 
then January, and the great Mistletoe question 
was not as yet settled. 

Letter No. 3. 

" December 31st. 

"Mr DEAR Miss Trefoil, — Here I am still 
at Surbiton's, and we have had such good sport 
that I'm half inclined to give the duke the slip. 
What a pity that you can't come here instead ! 
Wouldn't it be nice for you and half a dozen 
more, without any of the dowagers or duennas ? 
You miglit win some of the money which I lose. 
I have been very unlucky; and, if you had won 
it all, there would be plenty of room for hats and 
gloves, and for sending two or three Jacks about 
all the winter into the bargain. I never did win 
yet. I don't care very much about it, but I 
don't know why I should always be so uncom- 
monly unlucky. 

"We had such a day yesterday — an hour and 
ten minutes all in the open, and then a kill just 
as the poor fellow was trying to make a drain 
under the high-road. There were only five of 
us up. Surbiton broke his horse's back at a bank, 
and young De Canute came down on to a road 
and smashed his collar-bone. Three or four of 
the hounds were so done that they couldn't be 
got home. I was riding Black Harry, and he 
won't be out again for a fortnight. It was the 
best thing I've seen these two years. We never 
have it quite like that with the U.R.U. 

" If I don't go to Mistletoe, I'll send Jack and 
a groom, if you think the duke would take them 
in, and let you ride the horse. If so, I shall stay 
here pretty nearly all January, unless there should 
be a frost. In that case I should go back to Ruf- 
ford, as I have a deal of shooting to do. 1 shall 
be so soiry not to see you ; but there is always a 
sort of sin in not sticking to hunting when it's 
good. It so seldom is just what it ought to be. 

" I rather think that, after all, we shall be down 
on that fellow who poisoned our fox, in spite of 
your friend the Senator. 

' ' Yours always, faithfully, R. " 

There was a great deal in this letter which M'as 
quite terrible to Miss Trefoil. In the first place, 
by the time she received it she had managed the 
matter with her uncle. Her father had altogeth- 
er refused to mention Lord RufFord's name, though 
he had heard the very plain proposition which his 
daughter made to him with perfect serenity. But 
he had said to the duke that it would be a great 
convenience if Bell could be received at Mistletoe 
for a few days, and the duke had got the duchess 
to assent. Lady Augustus, too, had been dis- 
posed of, and two very handsome new dresses had 
been acquired. Her habit had been altered with 



reckless disregai'd of the coming spring, and she 
was fully prepared for her campaign. But what 
would Mistletoe be to her without Lord Rufford ? 
In spite of all that had been done, she would not 
go there. Unless she could turn him by her en- 
treaties, she would pack up every thing and start 
for Patagonia, with the determination to throw 
herself overboard on the way there if she could 
find the courage. 

She had to think very much of her next letter. 
Siiould she write in anger, or should she write in 
love — or should she mingle both ? There was no 
need for care now, as there had been at first. She 
must reach him at once, or every thing would be 
over. She must say something that would bring 
him to Mistletoe, whatever that something might 
be. After much thought, she determined that 
mingled anger and love would be the best. So 
she mingled them as follows : 

Letter No. 4. 

"Greenncres Manor, Monday. 

"Your last letter which I have just got has 
killed me. Y'ou must know that I have altered 
my plans, and done it at immense trouble, for 
the sake of meeting you at Mistletoe. It will be 
most unkind ; I might say worse, if you put me 
off. 1 don't think you can do it as a gentleman. 
I'm sure you would not if you knew what I have 
gone through with mamma, and the whole set 
of them, to arrange it. Of course, I sha'n't go if 
you don't come. Your talk of sending the horse 
tliere is adding an insult to the injury. You 
must have meant to annoy me, or you wouldn't 
have pretended to suppose that it was the horse 
I wanted to see. I didn't think I could have 
taken so violent a dislike to poor Jack as I did 
for a moment. Let me tell you that I think you 
are bound to go to Mistletoe, though the hunting 
at Melton should be better than was ever known 
before. When the hunting is good in one place, 
of course it is good in another. Even I am sports- 
man enough to know that. I suppose you have 
been losing a lot of money, and are foolish enough 
to think you can win it back again. 

"Please, please come. It was to be the lit- 
tle cream of the year for me. It wasn't Jack. 
There ! That ought to bring you. And yet, if 
you come, I will worship Jack. I have not said 
a word to mamma about altering my plans, nor 
shall I while there is a hope. But to Mistletoe 
I will not go, unless you are to be there. Pray 
answer this by return of post. If we have gone, 
your letter will of course follow us. Pray come. 
Yours if you do come — What shall I say ? Fill 
it as you please. A. T." 

Lord RnfFord, when he received the above very 
ardent epistle, was quite aware that he had bet- 
ter not go to Mistletoe. He understood the mat- 
ter nearly as well as Arabella did herself. But 
there was a feeling with him that up to that stage 
of the affair he ought to do what he was asked by 
a young lady, even though there might be dan- 
ger. Though there was danger, there would still 
be amusement. He therefore wrote again as fol- 
lows : 

Letter No. 5. 

"Dear Miss Trefoil, — You sha'n't be dia- 
appointed, whether it be Jack or any less use- 
ful animal that you wish to see. At any rate, 



78 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



Jack — and the other animal — will be at Mistle- 
toe on the 15th, I have written to the duke by 
this post. I can only hope tiiat you will be 
grateful. After all your abuse about my getting 
back my monej', I think you ought to be very 
grateful. I have got it back again, but I can as- 
sure you that has had nothing to do with it. 
"Yours ever, R. 

"We had two miserably abortive days last 
week." 

Arabella felt that a great deal of the compli- 
ment was taken away by the postscript ; but still 
she was grateful and contented. 



CHAPTER XXXII. 

"it is a long WAT." 

While the correspondence given in the last 
chapter was going on, Miss Trefoil had other 
ti'oubles besides those there narrated, and other 
letters to answer. Soon after her departure from 
Rufford, she received a very serious, but still an 
affectionate, epistle from John Morton, in which 
he asked her if it was her intention to become 
his wife or not. The letter was very long, as 
well as very serious, and need not be given here 
at length. But that was the gist of it ; and he 
went on to say that in regard to money he had 
made the most liberal proposition in his power; 
that he must decline to have any further com- 
munication with lawyers ; and that he must ask 
her to let him know at once — quite at once — 
whether she did or did not regard herself as en- 
gaged to him. It was a manly letter, and ended 
by a declaration that, as far as he Iiimself was 
concerned, his feelings were not at all altered. 
This she received while staying at the Gores, 
but, in accordance with her predetermined strate- 
gy, did not at once send any answer to it. Be- 
fore she heard again from Morton, she had re- 
ceived tliat pleasant first letter from Lord Ruf- 
ford, and was certainly then in no frame of mind 
to assure Mr. Morton that she was ready to de- 
clare herself his affianced wife before all the 
world. Then, after ten days, he had written to 
her again, and had written much more severely. 
It wanted at that time but a few days to Christ- 
mas, and she was waiting for a second letter from 
Lord Rufford. Let what might come of it, she 
could not now give up the Rufford chance. 

As she sat thinking of it, giving the very best 
of her mind to it, she remembered tlie warmth 
of that embrace in the little room behind the 
drawing-room, and those halcyon minutes in 
. which her head had been on his shoulder, and 
his arm round her waist. Not that they were 
made halcyon to her by any of the joys of love. 
In giving the girl her due, it must be owned that 
she rarely allowed herself to indulge in simple 
pleasures. If Lord Rufford, with the same rank 
and property, had been personally disagreeable 
to her, it would have been the same. Business 
to her had for many years been business, and 
her business had been so very hard that she had 
never allowed lighter things to interfere with it. 
She had had justice on her side when she re- 
buked her mother for accusing her of flirtations. 
But could such a man as Lord Rufford, with his 
hands so free, venture to tell himself that such 



tokens of affection with such a girl would mean 
nothing? If she might contrive to meet him 
again, of course tliey would be repeated, and then 
he should be forced to say that they did mean 
something. 

When, therefore, the severe letter came from 
Morton — severe and pressing, telling her that she 
was bound to answer him at once, and that were 
she still silent he must, in regard to his own hon- 
or, take that as an indication of her intention to 
break off" the match — she felt that she must an- 
swer it. The answer must, however, still be am- 
biguous. She would not, if possible, throw away 
that stool quite as j^et, though her mind was in- 
tent on ascending to the throne which it miglit 
be within her power to reach. She wrote to him 
an ambiguous letter, but a letter which certainly 
was not intended to liberate him. " He ought," 
she said, "to understand that a girl situated as 
she was could not ultimately dispose of herself 
till her friends had told her that she was free to 
do so. She herself did not pretend to have any 
interest in the affairs as to which her father and 
his lawyers were making themselves busy. They 
had never even condescended to tell her what it 
was they wanted on her behalf; nor, for the mat- 
ter of that, had he, Morton, ever told her what it 
was that he refused to do. Of course she could 
not throw herself into his arms till these things 
were settled." By that expression she had meant 
a metaphorical throwing of herself, and not sucli 
a flesii-and-blood embracing as she had permitted 
to the lord in the little room at Rufford. Then 
she suggested that he should appeal again to her 
father. It need hardly be said that her father 
knew very little about it, and that the lawj^ers 
had long since written to Lady Augustus to say 
that better terms as to settlement could not be 
had from Mr. John Morton. 

Morton, when he wrote his second letter, had 
received the offer of the mission to Patagonia, and 
had asked for a few days to think of it. After 
much consideration, he had determined that he 
would saj' nothing to Arabella of the offer. Her 
treatment of him gave her no right to be con- 
sulted. Should she at once write back declaring 
her readiness to become his wife, then he would 
consult her, and would not only consult her, but 
would be prepared to abandon the mission at the 
expression of her lightest wish. Indeed, in that 
case he thought that he would himself advise that 
it should be abandoned. Why should he expa- 
triate himself to such a place, with such a wife as 
Aiabella Trefoil ? He received her answer, and 
at once accepted the offer. He accepted it, 
though he by no means assured himself that the 
engagement was irrevocably annulled. But now, 
if she came to him, she must take her chance. 
She must be told that he, at any rate, was going 
to Patagonia, and that unless she could make up 
her mind to do so too, she must remain Arabella 
Trefoil, for him. He wonld not even tell her of 
his appointment. He had done all that in him 
lay, and would prepare himself for his journey as 
a single man. A minister going out to Pata- 
gonia would, of course, have some little leave of 
absence allowed him, and lie arranged with his 
friend Mounser Green that he should not start 
till April. 

But when Lord Rufford's second letter reach- 
ed Miss Trefoil down at Greenacres manor, where 
she had learned by common report that Mr, Mor- 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



79 



ton was to be the new minister at Patagonia — 
•when she believed as she then did tliat the lord 
was escaping her; that, seeing and feeling his 
danger, he had determined not to jump into the 
lion's mouth by meeting her at Mistletoe; that 
her chance there was all over — then she remem- 
bered her age, her many seasons, the hard work 
of her toilet, those tedious long and bitter quai*- 
rels with her mother, the ever -renewed trouble 
of her smiles, the hopelessness of her future should 
she smile in vain to tlie last, and the countless 
miseries of her endless visitings ; and she remem- 
bered, too, the twelve hundred pounds a year that 
Morton had offered to settle on her and the as- 
surance of a home of her own, though that home 
should be at Bragton. For an hour or two she 
had almost given up the iiope of Rufford, and 
had meditated some letter to her other lover 
which might at any rate secure him. But she 
had collected her courage sufficiently to make 
that last appeal to the lord, which had been suc- 
cessful. Three weeks now might settle all that, 
and for three weeks it might still be possible so 
to manage her affairs tiiat she might fall back 
upon Patagonia as her last resource. 

About this time Morton returned to Bragton, 
waiting, however, till he was assured that the Sen- 
ator had completed his visit to Dillsborough. He 
had been a little ashamed of the Senator in re- 
gard to the great Goarly conflict, and was not 
desirous of relieving his solitude by the presence 
of the American. On this occasion he went 
quite alone, and ordered no carriages from The 
Bush, and no increased establishment of serv- 
ants. He certainly was not happy in his mind. 
The mission to Patagonia was well paid, being 
worth, with house and et ceteras, nearly three 
tliousand pounds a year ; and it was great and 
quick promotion for one so )'oung as himself. 
For one neither a lord, nor connected with a 
Cabinet minister, Patagonia was a great place 
at which to begin his career as plenipotentiary 
on his own bottom ; but it is a long way off, and 
has its drawbacks. He could not look to be there 
for less than four years, and thei-e was hardly 
reason why a man in his position should expa- 
triate himself to such a place for so long a time. 
He felt that he should not have gone but for his 
engagement to Arabella Trefoil, and that neither 
would he have gone had his engagement been 
solid and permanent. He was going in order 
that he might be rid of that trouble, and a man's 
feelings in such circumstances can not be satis- 
ftictory to himself. However, he had said that 
he would go, and he knew enough of himself to 
be certain that, having said so, he would not al- 
ter his mind. But he was very melancholy, and 
Mrs. Hopkins declared to old Mrs. Twentyman 
that the young squire was "hipped" — "along 
of his lady love," as she thought. 

His hands had been so full of his visitors when 
at Bragton before, and he had been carried off 
so suddenly to Rufford, and then had hurried up 
to London in such misery, that he had hardly 
had time to attend to his own business. Mr. 
Masters had made a claim upon him since he 
had been in England for £127 8s. 4rf. in refer- 
ence to certain long -gone affairs in which the 
attorney declared he had been badly treated by 
those who had administered the Morton estate. 
John Morton had promised to look into the mat- 
ter, and to see Mr. Masters. He had partially 



looked into it, and now felt ashamed that he had 
not fully kept his promise. The old attorney had 
not had much hope of getting his money. It 
was doubtful to himself whether he could make 
good his claim against the squire at law, and it 
was his settled purpose to make no such attempt, 
although he was quite sure that the money was 
his due. Indeed, if Mr. Morton would not do 
any thing further in the matter, neither would 
he. He was almost tod mild a man to be a suc- 
cessful lawyer, and had a dislike to asking for 
mone3\ Mr. Morton had promised to see him, 
but Mr. Morton had probably — forgotten it. Some 
gentlemen seem apt to forget such promises. 

Mr. Masters was somewhat surprised, there- 
fore, when he was told one morning in his office 
that Mr. Morton, from Bragton, wished to see 
him. He thought that it must be Reginald Mor^ 
ton, having not heard that the squire had return- 
ed to the country. But John Morton was shown 
into the office, and the old attorney immediately 
arose from his arm-chair. Sundown was there, 
and was at once sent out of the room. Sun- 
down on such occasions was accustomed to re- 
tire to some settlement seldom visited by the pub- 
lic which was called the back office. Nickem 
was away, intent on unraveling the Goarly mys- 
tery, and the attorney could ask his visitor to 
take a confidential seat. Mr. Morton, however, 
had very little to say. He was full of apologies, 
and at once handed out a check for the sum de- 
manded. The money was so much to the at- 
torney that he was flurried by his own success. 
"Perhaps," said Morton, "I ought in fairness 
to add interest." 

"Not at all; by no means. Lawyers never 
expect that. Really, Mr. Morton, I am very 
much obliged. It was so long ago that I thought 
that perhaps you might think — ■" 

"I do not doubt that it's all right." 

"Yes, Mr. Morton, it's all right. It's quite 
right. But your coming in this way is quite a 
compliment. I am so proud to see the owner of 
Bragton once more in this house. I respect the 
family as I always did ; and as for the money — " 

"I am only sorry that it has been delayed so 
long. Good-morning, Mr. Masters." 

The attorney's affairs were in such a condition 
that an unexpected check for £127 8s. 4c?. suf- 
ficed to exhilarate him. It was as though the 
money had come down to him from the very 
skies. As it happened, Mary returned from 
Cheltenham on that same evening, and the at- 
torney felt that if she had brought back with 
her an intention to be Mrs. Twentyman he could 
still be a happy and contented man. 

And there had been anotlier trouble on John 
Morton's mind. He had received his cousin's 
card, but had not returned the visit while his 
grandmother had been at Bragton. Now he 
walked on to Hoppet Hall and knocked at the 
door. — Yes, Mr. Morton was at home; and then 
he was shown into the presence of his cousin, 
whom he had not seen since he was a boy. " I 
ought to have come sooner, "said the squire, who 
was hardly at his ease. 

"I heard you had a houseful of people at 
Bragton." 

"Just that; and then I went off rather sud- 
denly to the other side of the country, and then 
I had to go up to London. Now I'm going to 
Patagonia." 



80 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



" Patagonia. ! That's a long way off." 

"We Foreign-office slaves have to be sent a 
long way off." 

"But we heard, John," said Reginald, who 
did not feel it to be his duty to stand on any 
ceremony with his younger cousin — "we heard 
that you were going to be married to Miss Tre- 
foil. Are you going to take a wife out to Pat- 
agonia?" 

This was a question which he certainly had 
not expected. "I don't know how that may 
be," he said, frowning. 

" We were told here in Dillsborough that it 
was all settled. I hope I haven't asked an im- 
proper question." 

" Of course people will talk." 

"If it's only talk, I beg pardon. Whatever 
concerns Bragton is interesting to me ; and, from 
the way in which I heard this, I thought it was 
a certainty. Patagonia — well ! You don't want 
an assistant private secretary, I suppose ? I should 
like to see Patagonia." 

"We are not allowed to appoint those gentle- 
men ourselves." 

"And I suppose I should be too old to get in 
at the bottom. It seems a long way off for a 
man who is the owner of Bragton." 

" It is a long way. " 

"And what will you do with the old place?" 

"There's no one to live there. If you were 
married, you might perhaps take it." This was 
of course said in joke, as old Mrs. Morton would 
have thought Bragton to be disgraced forever, 
even by such a pi'oposition. 

"You might let it." 

" Who would take such a place for five years ? 
I suppose old Mrs. Hopkins will remain, and that 
it will become more and more desolate every year. 
I mustn't let the old house tumble down — that's 
all." Then the Minister Plenipotentiary to Pat- 
agonia took his departure and walked back to 
Bragton, thinking of the publicity of his engage- 
ment. All Dillsborough had heard that he was 
to be married to Miss Trefoil, and this cousin of 
his had been so sure of the fact that he had not 
hesitated to ask a question about it in the first 
moment of their first interview. Under such cir- 
cumstances, it would be better for him to go to 
Patagonia than to remain in England. 



CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE BEGINNING OF PERSECUTION. 

When Mary Masters got up on the morning 
after her arrival, she knew that she would have 
to endure much on that day. Every body had 
smiled on her the preceding evening, but the 
smiles were of a nature which declared them- 
selves to be preparatory to some coming events. 
The people around her were gracious, on the 
presumption that she was going to do as they 
wished, and would be quite prepared to with- 
draw their smiles should she prove to be contu- 
macious. Mary, as she crept down in the morn- 
ing, understood all this perfectly. She found 
her mother alone in the parlor, and was at once 
attacked with the all-important question : " My 
dear, I hope you have made up your mind about 
Mr. Twentyman." 



"There were to be two months, mamma." 

' ' That's nonsense, Mary. Of course you must 
know what you mean to tell him." Mary thought 
that she did know, but was not at the present 
moment disposed to make known her knowledge, 
and therefore remained silent. "You should re- 
member how much this is to your papa and me, 
and should speak out at once. Of course you 
need not tell Mr. Twentyman till the end of the 
time, unless you like it." 

"I thought I was to be left alone for two 
months." 

"Mary, that is wicked. When your papa has 
so many things to think of and so much to pro- 
vide for, you should be more thoughtful of him. 
Of course he will want to be prepared to give 
you what things will be necessary." Mrs. Mas- 
ters had not as, yet heard of Mr. Morton's check, 
and perhaps would not hear of it till her hus- 
band's bank-book fell into her hands. The at- 
torney had lately found it necessary to keep such 
matters to himself when it was possible, as oth- 
erwise he was asked for explanations which it 
was not always easy for him to give. "You 
know," continued Mrs. Masters, "how hard 
vour father finds it to get money as it is want- 
ed." 

"I don't want any thing, mamma." 

" You must want things if you are to be mar- 
ried in March or April." 

' ' But I sha'n't be married in March or April. 
Oh, mamma, pray don't!" 

"In a week's time or so j-ou must tell Lariy. 
After all that has passed, of course he won't ex- 
pect to have to wait long; and you can't ask 
him. Kate, my dear " — Kate had just entered 
the room — "go into the office and tell your 
father to come in to breakfast in five minutes. 
You must know, Mary, and I insist on your tell- 
ing me." 

"When I said two months — only it was he 
said two months — " 

" What difference does it make, my dear?" 

"It was only because he asked me to put it 
off. I knew it could make no difference." 

" Do you mean to tell nie, Mary, that you 
are going to I'efuse him, after all?" 

" I can't help it," said Mary, bursting out into 
tears. 

' ' Can't help it ! Did any body ever see such 
an idiot since girls were first created? Not help 
it, after having given him as good as a promise ! 
You must help it. You must be made to help 
it." 

There was an injustice in this which near- 
ly killed poor Mary. She had been persuaded 
among them to put off her final decision, not 
because she had any doubt in her own mind, 
but at their request ; and now she was told that 
in granting this delay she had "given as good 
as a promise!" And her step-mother also had 
declared that she "must be made to help it," 
or, in other words, be made to many Mr. Twen- 
tyman in opposition to her own wishes ! She 
was quite sure that no human being could have 
such right of compulsion over her. Her father 
would not attempt it, and it was, after all, to her 
father alone that she was bound by duty. At 
the moment she could make no reply, and then 
her father, with the two girls, came in from the 
office. 

The attornev was still a little radiant with his 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



81 



triumph about the check, and was also pleased 
with his own discernment in the matter of Goar- 
ly. He had learned that morning from Nickera 
that Goarly had consented to take seven shillings 
and sixpence an acre from Lord RufFord, and 
was prepared to act "quite the honorable part" 
on behalf of his lordship. Nickem had seemed 
to think that the triumph would not end here, 
but had declined to make any very definite state- 
ments. Nickem clearly fancied that he had been 
doing great things himself, and that he might be 
allowed to have a little mystery. But the attor- 
ney took great credit to himself in that he had 
rejected Gbarly's case, and had been employed 
by Lord Kufford in lieu of Goarly. When he 
entered the parlor, he had for the moment forgot- 
ten Larry Twentyman and his love, and was dis- 
posed to greet his girl lovingly; but he found 
her dissolved in bitter tears. " Mary, my dar- 
ling, what is it ails you ?" he said. 

" Never mind about your darling now, but 
come to breakfast. She is giving herself airs — 
as usual." 

But Mary never did give herself airs, and her 
fiither could not endure the accusation. "She 
would not be crying," he said, "unless she had 
something to cry for." 

"Pray don't make a fuss about things you 
don't understand," said his wife. "Mary, are 
you coming to the table? If not, you had bet- 
ter go upstairs. I hate such ways, and I won't 
have them. This comes of Ushanting ! I knew 
what it would be. The place for girls is to stay 
at home and mind their work, till they have got 
houses of their own to look after. That's what 
I intend my girls to do. There's nothing on 
earth so bad for girls as thattwiddle-your-thumbs 
visiting about when they think they've nothing 
to do but to show what sort of ribbons and gloves 
they've got. Now, Dolly, if you've got any 
hands, will you cut the bread for your father ? 
Mary's a deal too fine a lady to do any thing but 
sit there and rub her eyes. " After that the break- 
fast was eaten in silence. 

When the meal was over, Mary followed her 
father into the office and said that she wanted to 
speak to him. When Sundown had disappeared, 
she told her tale. " Papa," she said, " I am so 
sorry, but I can't do what you want about Mr. 
Twentyman." 

"Is it so, Mary?" 

" Don't be angry with me, papa." 

"Angry! No — I won't be angry. I should 
be very sorry to be angry with my girl. But 
what you tell me will make us all very unhappy 
— very unhappy, indeed. What will you say to 
Lawrence Twentyman ?" 

"What I said before, papa.'- 

"But he is quite certain now that you mean 
to take him. Of course we were all certain 
when you only wanted a few more days to think 
of it." Mary felt this to be the crudest thing 
of all. "When he asked me, I said I wouldn't 
pledge you, but I certainly had no doubt. What 
is the matter, Mary?" 

She could understand that a girl might be 
asked why she wanted to marry a man, and that 
in such a condition she ought to be able to give 
a reason ; but it was, she thought, very hard that 
she should be asked why she didn't want to mar- 
ry a man. "I suppose, papa," she said, after a 
pause, "I don't like him in that way." 
6 



"Your mamma will be sure to say that it is 
because you went to Lady Ushant's." 

And so, in part, it was, as Mary herself very 
well knew ; though Lady Ushant herself had Iiad 
nothing to do with it. "Lady Ushant," she 
said, " would be very well pleased, if she thought 
that I liked him well enough." 

" Did you tell Lady Ushant?" 

"Yes, I told her all about it, and how you 
would all be pleased. And I did try to bring 
myself to it. Papa, pray, pray don't want to 
send me away from you !" «• 

" You would be so near to us all at Chowton 
Farm." 

"I am nearer here, papa." Then she em- 
braced him, and he in a manner yielded to her. 
He yielded to her so far as to part with her at 
the present moment with soft, loving words. 

Mrs. Masters had a long conversation with her 
husband on the subject that same day, and con- 
descended even to say a few words to the two 
girls. She had her own theory and her own 
plan, in the present emergency. According to 
her theory, girls shouldn't be indulged in any 
vagaries, and this rejecting of a highly valuable 
suitor was a most inexcusable vagary. And, if 
her plan were followed, a considerable amount of 
wholesome coercion would at once be exercised 
toward tiiis refractory young woman. There 
was, in fact, more than a fortnight wanting to 
the expiration of Larry's two months ; and Mrs. 
Masters was strongly of opinion that if Mary 
were put into a sort of domestic " Coventry " 
during this period — if she were debarred from 
friendly intercourse with the family, and made 
to feel that such wickedness as hers, if contin- 
ued, would make her an outcast — then she would 
come round and accept Larry Twentyman before 
the end of the time. But this plan could not be 
carried out without her husband's co-operation. 
Were she to attempt it single -lianded, Mary 
would take refuge in her father's softness of 
heart, and there woidd simply be two parties in 
the household. "If you would leave her to me 
and not speak to her, it would be all right," Mrs. 
Masters said to her husband. 

' ' Not speak to her ! " 

"Not cosset her and spoil her for the next 
week or two. Just leave her to herself, and let 
her feel what she's doing. Think what Chow- 
ton Farm would be, and you with your business 
all slipping through your fingers." 

"I don't know that it's slipping through my 
fingers at all," said the attorney, mindful of his 
recent successes. 

"If you mean to say you don't care about 
it—" 

" I do care about it very much. You know I 
do. You ought not to talk to me in that way." 

"Then why won't you be said by me? Of 
course, if you cocker her up, she'll think she's to 
have her own way like a grand lady. She don't 
like him because he works for his bread — that's 
what it is ; and because she's been taught by 
that old woman to read poetry. I never knew 
that stuff do any good to any body. I hate them 
fandangled lines that are all cut up short to make 
pretense. If she wants to read, why can't she 
take the cookery-book and learn something use- 
ful. It just comes to this — if you want her to 
marry Larry Twentyman, you had better not 
notice her for the next fortnight. Let her go 



82 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



and come, and say nothing to her. She'll think 
about it, if she's left to herself." 

The attorney did want his daughter to many 
the man, and was half convinced by his wife. 
He could not bring himself to be cruel, and felt 
that his heart would bleed every hour of the day 
that he separated himself from his girl ; but still 
he thought that he might perhaps best in this 
way bring about a result which would be so 
manifestly for her advantage. It might be that 
the books of poetry and tlie modes of thought 
which his wife described as "Ushanting" were 
of a nature to pervert his gii'l's mind from the 
material necessities 'of life, and that a little hard- 
ship would bring her round to a more rational 
condition. With a very heavy heart he consent- 
ed to do his part, which was to consist mainly of 
silence. Any words which might be considered 
expedient were to come from his wife. 

Three or four days went on in this way, which 
were days of absolute misery to Mar}'. She 
soon perceived, and partly understood, her fa- 
ther's silence. She knew, at any rate, that for 
the present she was debarred from his confi- 
dence. Her mother did not say much ; but what 
she did say was all founded on the theory that 
Ushanting and softness in general are very bad 
for young women. Even Dolly and Kate were 
hard to her — each having some dim idea that 
Mary was to be coerced toward Larry Twenty- 
man and her own good. At the end of that 
time, when Mary had been at home nearly a 
week, Larry came as usual on the Saturday 
evening. She, well knowing his habit, took care 
to be out of the way. Larry, with a pleasant 
face, asked after her, and expressed a hope that 
she had enjoyed herself at Cheltenham. 

"A nasty, idle place, where nobody does any 
thing, as I believe," said Mrs. Masters. Larry 
received a shock from the tone of the lady's 
voice. He had allowed himself to think that all 
his troubles were now nearly over, but the words 
and the voice frightened him. He had told him- 
self that he was not to speak of his love again 
till the two months were over, and, like an hon- 
orable man, was prepared to wait the full time. 
He would not now have come to the attorney's 
house but that he knew the attorney would wait 
for him before going over to the club. He had 
no right to draw deductions till the time should 
be up. But he could not help his own feelings, 
and was aware that his heart sunk within him 
when he was told that Cheltenham was a nasty, 
idle place. Abuse of Cheltenham at the present 
moment was in fact abuse of Mary, and the one 
sin which Mary could commit was persistence in 
her rejection of his suit. But he determined to 
be a man, as he walked across the street with his 
old friend, and said not a word about his love. 
' ' They tell me that Goarly has taken his seven 
shillings and sixpence, Mr. Masters." 

" Of course he has taken it, Larry. The 
worse luck for me. If he had gone on, I might 
have had a bill against his lordship as long as 
my arm. Now it won't be worth looking after." 

" I'm sure you're veiy glad, Mr. Masters." 

"Well, yes; I am glad. I do hate to see a 
fellow like that who hasn't got a farthing of his 
own, propped up from behind just to annoy his 
betters." 

"They say that Bearside got a lot of money 
out of that. American." 



" I suppose he got something." 

"What an idiot that man must be! Can 
you understand it, Mr. Masters ?" 

They now entered the club, and Goarly and 
Nickem and Scrobby were of course being dis- 
cussed. "Is it true, Mr. Masters, that Scrobby 
is to be arrested ?" asked Fred Botsey at once. 

" Upon my word, I can't say, Mr. Botsey ; but, 
if you tell me it is so, I sha'n't cry my eyes out." 

"I thought you would have known." 

"A gentleman may know a thing, Mr. Bot- 
sey," said the.landlord, "and not exactly choose 
to tell it." 

" I didn't suppose there was any secret," said 
the brewer. As Mr. Masters made no further 
remark, it was of course conceived that he knew 
all about it, and he was therefore treated with 
some increased deference. But there was on 
that night great triumph in the club, as it was 
known as a fact that Goarly had withdrawn his 
claim, and that the American Senator had paid 
his money for nothing. It was, moreover, very 
generally believed that Goarly was going to turn 
evidence against-Scrobby in reference to the poi- 
son. 



CHAPTER XXXIV. 



MAKY S LETTER. 



The silent system in regard to Mary was car- 
ried on in the attorney's house for a week, dur- 
ing which her sufferings were very great. JFrom 
the first she made up her mind to oppose her 
step-mother's cruelty by sheer obstinacy. She 
had been told that she must be made to marry 
Mr. Twentyman, and the injustice of that threat 
had at once made her rebel against her step- 
mother's authority. She would n&ver allow her 
step-mother to make her marry any one. She 
put herself into a state of general defiance, and 
said as little as was said to her. But her father's 
silence to her nearly broke her heart. On one 
or two occasions, as opportunity offered itself to 
her, she said little, soft words to him in privacy. 
Then he would partly relent, would kiss her and 
bid her be a good girl, and would quickly hurry 
away from her. She could understand that he 
suffered as well as herself, and she perhaps got 
some consolation from the conviction. At last, 
ou the following Saturday she watched her op- 
portunity, and brought to him, when he was 
alone in his office, a letter which she had writ- 
ten to Larry Twentyman. "Papa," she said, 
" would you re<ad that?" He took and read the 
letter, which was as follows : 

"My dear Mr. Twentyman, — Something 
was said about two months which are now very 
nearly over. I think I ought to save you from the 
trouble of coming to me again by telling you in a 
letter that it can not be as you would have it. I 
have thought of it a great deal, and have of course 
been anxious to do as my friends wish. And I 
am very grateful to you, and know how good 
and how kind you are. And I would do any 
thing for you — except this. But it never can 
be. I should not write like this unless I were 
quite certain. I hope you won't be angry with 
me, and think that I should have spared you the 
trouble of doubting so long. I know now that 
I ought not to have 4oubted at all ; but I was 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



83 



so anxious not to seem to be obstinate that I 
became foolish about it when you asked me. 
What I say now is quite certain. 

" Deal' Mr. Twentyman, I shall always think 
of you with esteem and regard, because I know 
how good you are ; and I hope you will come to 
like somebody a great deal better than me, who 
will always love you with her whole heart. 
" Yours very truly, 

"Mary Masters. 

" P.S. — I shall show this letter to papa." 

Mr. Masters read it as she stood by him, and 
then read it again very slowly, rubbing one hand 
over the other as he did so. He was thinking 
what he should do — or, rather, what he should 
say. The idea of stopping the letter never oc- 
curred to him. If she chose to refuse the man, 
of course she must do so ; and perhaps, if she 
did refuse him, there was no way better tlian 
this. "Must it be so, Mary?" he said, at last. 

" Yes, papa." 

"But why?"' 

"Because I do not love him as I should have 
to love any man that I wanted to marry. I have 
tried it because you wished it, but I can not do 
it." 

"What will mamma say ?" 

" I am thinking more, papa, of you," she said, 
putting her arm over his shoulder. " You have 
always been so good to me, and so kind ! " Here 
his heart misgave him ; for he felt that during 
the last week he had not been kind to her, "But 
you would not wish me to give myself to a man, 
and then not to care for him." 

' ' No, my dear. " 

"I couldn't do it. I should fall down dead 
first. I have thought so much about it, for your 
sake, and have tried it with myself. I couldn't 
do it." 

" Is there any body else, Mary ?" As he ask- 
ed the question, he held her hand beneath his 
own on the desk, but he did not dare to look into 
her face. He had been told by his wife that there 
was somebody else — that the girl's mind was 
running upon Mr. Surtees, because Mr. Surtees 
was a gentleman. He was thinking of Mr. Sur- 
tees, and certainly not of Reginald Morton. 

To her the moment was very solemn, and when 
the question was asked, she felt that she could 
not tell her father a falsehood. She had gradu- 
ally grown bold enough to assure herself that her 
heart was occupied with that man who had trav- 
eled with her to Cheltenham, and she felt that 
that feeling alone must keep her apart from any 
other love. And yet, as she had no hope, as 
she had assured herself that her love was a burden 
to be borne, and could never become a source 
of enjoyment, why should her secret be wrested 
from her ? What good would such a violation 
do ? But she could not tell the falsehood, and 
therefore slie held her tongue. 

Gradually he looked up into her foce, still keep- 
ing her hand pressed on the desk under his. It was 
his left hand that so guarded her, while she stood 
by his right shoulder. Then he gently wound 
his right arm round her waist and pressed her 
to him. " Mary," he said, " if it is so, had you 
not better tell me ?" But she was sure that she 
had better not mention that name even to him. 
It was impossible that she should mention it. 
She would have outraged to herself her own 



maiden modesty by doing so. " Is it," he asked 
very softly — "is it — Mr. Surtees?" 

"Oh no!" she said, quickly, almost escaping 
from the grasp of his arm in her start. 

Then he was absolutely at a loss. Beyond 
Mr. Surtees or Larry Twentyman he did not 
know what possible lover Dillsborough could 
have afforded. And yet the very rapidity of her 
answer when the curate's name had been men- 
tioned had convinced him that there was some 
other person — had increased the strength of 
that conviction which her silence had produced. 
" Have you nothing that you can tell me, 
Mary ?" 

" No, papa." Then he gave her back the let- 
ter, and she left the room without another word. 
Of course his sanction to the letter had now been 
given, and it was addressed to Chowton Farm 
and posted before half an hour was over. She 
saw him again in the afternoon of the same day, 
and asked him to tell her step-mother what she 
had done. " Mammj^ought to know," she said. 

" But you haven't sent it." 

" Yes, papa ; it is in the post." 

Then it occurred to him that his wife would 
tell him that he should have prevented tlie send- 
ing of the letter — tliat he should have destroyed 
it, and altogether taken the matter \vith a high 
hand. " You can't tell lier yourself?" he asked. 

" I would rather you did. Mamma has been 
so hard to me since I came home." 

He did tell his wife, and she overwhelmed him 
by the violence of her reproaches. He could 
never have been in earnest, or he would not have 
allowed such a letter as that to pass through his 
hands. He must be afraid of his own child. He 
did not know his own duty. He had been deceiv- 
ing her, his wife, from first to last. Then she 
threw herself into a torrent of tears, declaring 
that she had been betrayed. There had been a 
conspiracy between tlaem, and now every thing 
might go to the dogs, and she would not lift up her 
hands again to save them. But before the even- 
ing came round she was again on the alert, and 
again resolved that she would not even yet give 
way. What was there in a letter more than in a 
spoken word ? She would tell Larry to disre- 
gard the letter. But first she made a futile at- 
tempt to clutch the letter from the guardianship 
of the post-office, and she went to the postmas- 
ter, assuring him that there had been a mistake 
in the family — that a wrong letter had been put 
into a wrong envelope — and begging that the let- 
ter addressed to Mr. Twentyman might be given 
back to lier. The postmaster, half vacillatory, in 
his desire to oblige a neighbor, produced the let- 
ter, and Mrs. Masters put out her hand to grasp 
it ; but the servant of the public — who had been 
thoroughly grounded in his duties by one of those 
tr-usty guardians of our correspondence who in- 
spect and survey our provincial post-olfices — re- 
membered himself at the last moment, and, ex- 
pressing the violence of his regret, replaced tlie 
letter in the box. Mrs. Masters, in her anger 
and grief, condescended to say very hard things 
to her neighbor ; but tiie man remembered his 
duty, and was firm. 

On that evening Larry Twentyman did not at- 
tend the Dillsborough Club, having, in the course 
of the week, notified to the attorney that he 
should be a defaulter. Mr. Masters himself^ 
went over earlier than usual, his own house hav- 



84 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



ing become very uncomfortable to him. Mrs. 
Masters for an hour sat expecting that Lan*y 
would come, and when the evening passed away 
without his appearance, she was convinced that 
the unusual absence was apart of the conspiracy 
against her. 

Larry did not get his letter till the Monday 
morning. On the last Thursday and Saturday 
he had consoled himself for liis doubts with the 
U. R. U., and was minded to do so on the Mon- 
day also. He had not gone to the club on Sat- 
urday, and had moped about Chowton all the 
Sunday in a feverish state because of his doubts. 
It seemed to him that the two months would 
never be over. On the Monday he was out ear- 
ly on the farm, and then came down in his boots 
and breeches, and had his red coat ready at the 
fire while he sat at breakfast. The meet was 
fifteen miles off, and he had sent on his hunter, 
intending to travel thither in his dog-cart. Just 
as he was cutting himself a slice of beef, the post- 
man came, and of course be read his letter. He 
read it with the carving-knife in his hand, and 
then he stood gazing at his mother. " What is 
it, Larry ?" she asked ; "is any thing Avrong ?" 

" Wrong ! well, I don't know," he said. "I 
don't know what you call wrong. I*%ha'n't hunt ; 
that's all." Then he threw aside theS knife and 
pushed away his plate, and marched oiit of the 
room with the open letter in his hands. 

Mrs. Twentyman knew very well of his love, 
as indeed did nearly all Dillsborough ; but she 
had heard nothing of the two months, and did 
not connect the letter with Mary Masters. Sure- 
ly he must have lost a large sum of money. That 
was her idea till she saw him again late in the 
afternoon. 

He never went near the hounds that day, or 
near his business. He was not then man enough 
for eithei'. But he Walked about the fields, keep- 
ing out of sight of every body. It was all over 
now. It must be all over when slie wrote to him 
a letter like that. Why had she tempted him to 
thoughts of happiness and success by that prom- 
ise of two months' grace ? He supposed he was 
not good enough, or that she thought that he 
was not good enough. Then he remembered 
his acres, and his material comforts, and tried to 
console himself by reflecting that Mary Masters 
might very well do worse in the world. But 
there was no consolation in it. He had tried his 
best because he had really loved the girl. He 
had failed, and all the world — all his world — 
would know that he had failed. There was not 
a man in the club — hardly a man in the hunt — 
who was not aware that he had ofi«red to Mary 
Masters. During the last two months he had 
not been so reticent as was prudent, and had al- 
most boasted to Fred Botsey of success. And, 
then, how was he to live at Chowton Farm with- 
out Mary Masters as his wife ? As he returned 
home, he almost made up his mind that he would 
not continue to live at Chowton Farm. 

He came back through Dillsborough Wood ; 
and there, prowling about, he met Goarly. 
" Well, Mr. Twentyman," said the man, " I am 
making it all straight now with his lordship. " 

" I don't care what you are doing," said Lar- 
ry, in his misery. " You are an infernal black- 
guard, and that's the best of you." 



CHAPTER XXXV. 

CHOWTON FARM FOR SALE. 

John Morton had returned to town soon 
after his walk into Dillsborough, and had there 
leai'ned from difierent sources that both Arabella 
Trefoil and Lord Ruftbrd had gone, or were go- 
ing, to Mistletoe. He had seen Lord Augustus, 
who, though he could tell him nothing else about 
his daughter, had not been slow to inform him 
that she was going to the house of her noble un- 
cle. When Morton had spoken to him very se- 
riously about tlie engagement, he declared that 
he knew nothing about it, except that he had 
given bis consent if the settlements were all right. 
Lady Augustus managed all that. Morton had 
then said that, under those circumstances, he 
feared he must regard the honor which he had 
hoped to enjoy as being beyond his reach. Loi-d 
Augustus had shrugged his shoulders and had 
gone back to his whist, this interview having 
taken place in the strangers' room of his club. 
That Lord Rufford was also going to Mistletoe, 
he heard from young Glossop at the Foreign Of- 
fice. It was quite possible that Glossop had been 
instructed to make this known to Morton by his 
sister. Lady Penwether. Then Morton declared 
that the thing was over, and that he would trou- 
ble himself no more about it. But this resolu- 
tion did not make him at all contented, and in 
his misery he went again down to his solitude 
at Bragton. 

And now when he might fairly consider him- 
self to be free, and when he should surely have 
congratulated himself on a most lucky escape 
from the great danger into which he had fallen, 
his love and admiration for the girl returned to 
him in a most wonderful manner. He thought 
of her beauty and her grace, and the manner in 
which she would sit at the head of his table 
when the time should come for him to be pro- 
moted to some great capital. To him she had fos- 
cinations which the reader, who perhaps knows 
her better than he ever did, will not share. He 
could forgive the coldness of her conduct to him- 
self — he himself not being by nature demonstra- 
tive or impassioned — if only she were not more 
kind to any rival. It was the fact that she 
should be visiting at the same house M'ith Lord 
RuiFord after what he had seen at Rufford Hall, 
which had angered him. But now, in his soli- 
tude, he thought that he might have been wrong 
at Rufford Hall. If it were the case that the 
girl feared that her marriage might be prevented 
by the operations of lawyers and family friends, 
of course she would be right not to throw herself 
into his arms, even metaphorically. He was a 
cold, just man, who, when he had loved, could 
not easily get rid of his love, and now he would 
ask himself whether he was not hard upon the 
ghl. It was natural that she should be at Mis- 
tletoe ; but, then, why should Lord Rufford be 
there with her ? 

His prospects at Patagonia did not console 
him much. No doubt it was a handsome mis- 
sion for a man of his age, and there were sun- 
dry Patagonian questions of importance at the 
present moment which would give him a certain 
weight. Patagonia was repudiating a loan, and 
it was hoped that he might induce a better feel- 
ing in the Patagonian Parliament. There was 
the Patagonian railway for joining the Straits to 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



85 



the Cape, the details of which he was now study- 
ing with great diligence. And then there was 
the vital question of boundary between Patago- 
nia and the Argentine Republic, by settling which, 
should he be happy enough to succeed in doing 
so, he would prevent the horrors of warfare. He 
endeavored to fix his mind with satisfaction on 
these great objects, as he pored over the reports 
and papers which had been heaped upon him 
since he had accepted the mission. But there 
was present to him always a feeling that the men 
at the Foreign Office had been glad to get any 
respectable diplomate to go to Patagonia, and 
that his brethren in the profession had marveled 
at his acceptance of such a mission. One nev- 
er likes to be thanked overmuch for doing any 
thing. It creates a feeling that one has given 
more than was expedient. He knew that he 
must now go to Patagonia, but he repented the 
alacrity with which he had acceded to the prop- 
osition. Whether he did marry Arabella Tre- 
foil, or whether he did not, there was no ade- 
quate reason for such a banishment. And yet 
he could not now escape it ! 

It was on a Monday morning that Larry Twen- 
tyman had found himself unable to go hunting. 
On the Tuesday he gave his workmen about the 
farm such a routing as they had not received for 
many a month. There had not been a dung- 
heap or a cow-shed which he had not visited, nor 
a fence about the place with which he iiad not 
found fault. He was at it all day, trying thus 
to console himself, but in vain ; and when his 
mother in the evening said some word of her 
misery in regard to the turkeys, he had told her 
that, as far as he was concerned, Goarly might 
poison every fox in the county. Then the poor 
woman knew that matters were going badly with 
her son. On the Wednesday when the hounds 
met within two miles of Chowton, he again staid 
at home ; but in the afternoon he rode into Dills- 
borough and contrived to see tiie attorney with- 
out being seen by any of the ladies of the family. 
The interview did not seem to do him any good. 
On the Thursday morning he walked across to 
Bragton, and with a firm voice asked to see the 
squire. Morton, who was deep in the boundary 
question, put aside his papers and welcomed his 
neighbor. 

Now, it must be explained that when, in for- 
mer years, his son's debts had accumulated on 
old Mr. Reginald Morton, so that he had been 
obliged to part with some portion of his unen- 
tailed property, he had sold that which lay in the 
parish of St. John's, Dillsborough. The lands in 
Bragton and Mallingham he could not sell ; but 
Chowton Farm,which was in St. John's, had been 
bought by Larry Twentyman's grandfather. For 
a time there had been some bitterness of feeling ; 
but the Twentymans had been well-to-do, respect- 
able people, most anxious to be good neighbors, 
and had gradually made themselves liked by the 
owner of Bragton. The present squire had of 
course known nothing of Chowton as a part of 
the Morton property, and had no more desire for 
it than for any of Lord Rufford's acres which were 
contiguous to his own. He shook hands cordial- 
ly with his neighbor, as though this visit were 
the most natural thing in the world, and asked 
some questions about Goarly and the hunt. 

"I believe that'll all come square, Mr. Mor- 
ton. I'm not interesting myself much about it 



now." Larry was not dressed like himself. He 
had on a dark-brown coat, and dark pantaloons, 
and a chimney-pot hat. He was conspicuous 
generally for light-colored, close-fitting garments, 
and for a billicock hat. He was very unlike his 
usual self on the present occasion. 

"I thought you were just the man who did 
interest himself about those things." 

"Well, yes; once it was so, Mr. Morton. 
What I've got to say now, Mr. Morton, is this. 
Chowton Farm is in the market ! But I wouldn't 
say a word to any one about it till you had had 
the offer." 

" You going to sell Chowton ?" 

" Yes, Mr. Morton, I am." 

"From all I have heard of you, I wouldn't 
have believed it if any body else had told me. " 

"It's a fact, Mr. Morton. There are three 
hundred and twenty acres. I put the rental at 
thirty shillings an acre. You know what you 
get, Mr. Morton, for the land that lies next to it. 
And I think twenty- eight years' purchase isn't 
more than it's worth. Those are my ideas as 
to price, Mr. Morton. There isn't a half-penny 
owing on it, not in the way of mortgage." 

" I dare say it's worth that." 

" Up at auction I might get a turn more, Mr. 
Morton ; but those are my ideas at present." 

John Morton, who was a man of business, 
went to work at once with his pencil, and in two 
minutes had made out a total. "I don't know 
that I could put my hand on fourteen thousand 
pounds, even if I were minded to make the pui'- 
chase." 

"That needn't stand in the way, sir. Any 
part you please could lie on mortgage at four 
and a half per cent." Larry, in the midst of 
his distress, had certain clear ideas about busi- 
ness. 

"This is a very serious proposition, Mr. 
Twentyman." 

" Yes, indeed, sir. " 

" Have you any other views in life ?" 

"I can't say as I have any fixfed. I sha'n't 
•be idle, Mr. Morton. I never was idle. I was 
thinking, perhaps, of New Zealand. " 

"A very fine colony for a young man, no 
doubt. But, seeing how well you are estab- 
lished here — " 

"I can't stay here, Mr. Morton. I've made 
up my mind about that. There are things which 
a man can't bear — not and live quiet. As for 
hunting, I don't care about it any more than — 
nothing." 

"I am sorry that any thing should have made 
3'ou so unhappy." 

"Well, I am unhappy. That's about the 
truth of it. And I always shall be unhappy 
here. There's nothing else for it but going 
away. " 

"If it's any thing sudden, Mr. Twentyman, 
allow me to say that you ought not to sell your 
property without grave consideration." 

"I have considered it, A'ery grave, Mr. Mor- 
ton." 

"Ah, but I mean long consideration. Take 
a year to think of it. You can't buy such a 
place back in a year. I don't know you well 
enough to be justified in inquiring into the cir- 
cumstances "of j'our trouble ; but unless it be 
something which makes it altogether inexpedi- 
ent, or almost impossible that you should remain 



8G 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



in the neighborhood, you should not sell Chow- 
ton." 

" I'll tell you, Mr. Morton," said Larry, al- 
most weeping. Poor Larry, whether in his tri- 
umph or his sorrow, had no gift of reticence, and 
now told his neighbor the whole story of his love, 
lie was certain it had become quite hopeless. 
He was sure that she would never have written 
him a letter if there had been any smallest chance 
left. According to his ideas, a girl might say 
"no" half a dozen times and yet not mean 
much ; but when she had committed herself to a 
letter, she could not go back from it. 

" Is there any body else?" asked Morton. 

"Not as I know. I never saw any thing — 
like — like lightness with her with any man. 
They said something about the curate, but I 
don't believe a word of it." 

"And the family approve of it?" 

"Every one of them — father, and step-moth- 
er, and sisters, and all. My own mother too ! 
There ain't a ha'porth against it. I don't want 
any one to give me sixpence in money. And 
she should live just like a lady. I can keep a 
servant for her to cook and do every mortal 
thing. But it ain't nothing of all that, Mr. Mor- 
ton." 

"What is it, then?" 

The poor man paused before he made his an- 
swer ; but when he did, he made it plain enough. 
' ' I ain't good enough for her ! Nor more I ain't, 
Mr. Morton. She was brought up in this house, 
Mr. Morton, by your own grand-aunt." 

" So I have heard', Mr. Twentyman." 

"And there's more of Bragton than there is 
of Dillsborough about her; that's just where it 
is. I know what I am, and I know what she is, 
and I ain't good enough for her. It should be 
somebody that can talk books to her. I can tell 
her how to plant a field of wheat or how to run 
a foal, but I can't sit and read poetry, nor yet be 
read to. There's plenty of 'em would sell them- 
selves because the land's all there, and the house, 
and tlie things in it. What makes me mad is 
that I should love her all the better because she* 
won't. My belief is, Mr. Morton, they'i'e as poor 
as Job. That makes no difference to me, be- 
cause I don't want it ; but it makes no difference 
to her neither! She's right, Mr. Morton. I'm 
not good enough, and so I'll just cut it, as far as 
Dillsboi'ough is concerned. You'll think of what 
I said of taking the land ?" 

Mr. Morton said much more to him, walking 
with him to the gate of Chowton Farm. He as- 
sured him that the young lady might yet be won. 
He had only, Morton said, to plead his case to 
her as well as he had done up at Bragton, and 
he thought that she would be won. " I couldn't 
speak out free to her — not if it was to save the 
whole place," said the unfortunate lover. But 
Morton still continued his advice. As to leav- 
ing Chowton because a young lady refused liim, 
that would be unmanly. " There isn't a bit of a 
man left about me," said Larry, weeping. Mor- 
ton, nevertheless, went on. Time would cure 
these wounds ; but no time would give him back 
Chowton, should he once part with it. If he 
must leave the place for a time, let him put a 
care-taker on the farm, even though by doing so 
the loss might be great. He should do any thing 
rather than surrender his house. As to buying 
the land himself, Morton would not talk about it 



in the present circumstances. Then they parted 
at Chowton gate with many expressions of friend- 
ship on each side. 

John Morton, as he returned home, could not 
help thinking that the young farmer's condition 
was, after all, better than his own. There was 
an honesty about both the persons concerned of 
which, at any rate, they might be proud. There 
was real love ; and though that love was not at 
present happy, it was of a nature to inspire per- 
fect respect. But in his own case he was sure 
of nothing. 



CHAPTER XXXVL 

MISTLETOE. 

When Arabella Trefoil started from London 
for Mistletoe, with no .companion but her own 
maid, she had given more serious consideration 
to her visit than she had probably ever paid to 
any matter up to that time. She had often been 
much in earnest, but never so much in earnest 
as now. Those other men had, perhaps, been 
worthy — worthy as far as her ideas went of worth 
— but none of them so worthy as this man. Ev- 
ery thing was there, if she could only get it — mon- 
ey, rank, fashion, and an appetite for pleasure. 
And he was handsome too, and good-humored, 
tliough these qualities told less with her than the 
others. And now she was to meet him in the 
house of her great relations, in a position in which 
her rank and her fasliion would seem to be equal 
to his own. And she would meet him, with the 
remembrance fresh in his mind as in her own of 
those passages of love at RufTord. It would be 
impossible that he should even seem to forget 
them. The most that she could expect would 
be four or five days of his company, and she 
knew that she must be upon her mettle. She 
must do more now than she had ever attempted 
before. She must scruple at nothing that might 
bind him. She would be in the house of her un- 
cle, and that uncle a duke, and she thought that 
those facts might help to quell him. And she 
would be there without her mother, who was so 
often a heavy incubus on her shoulders. She 
thought of it all, and made her plans carefully, 
and even painfully. She would be, at any rate, 
two days in the house before his ari'ival. Dur- 
ing that time she would curry fjivor with her un- 
cle by all her arts, and would, if possible, recon- 
cile herself to her aunt. She thought once of 
taking her aunt into her full confidence, and bal- 
anced the matter much in her mind. The duch- 
ess, she knew, was afraid of her — or, rather, 
afraid of the relationship, and would of course be 
pleased to have all fears set at rest by such an 
alliance. But her aunt was a woman who had 
never suffered hardships, whose own marriage 
had been easily arranged, and whose two daugli- 
ters had been pleasantly married before they 
were twenty years old. She had had no experi- 
ence of feminine difficulties, and would have no 
mercy for such labors as those to which her less 
fortunate niece was driven. It would have been 
a great thing to have the cordial co-operation of 
her aunt, but she could not venture to ask for it. 

She had stretched her means and her credit to 
the utmost, in regard to her wardrobe, and was 
aware that she had never been so well equipped 
since those early days of her career in which her 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



father and mother had thought that her beauty, 
assisted by a generous expenditure, would serve 
to dispose of her without delay. A generous ex- 
penditure may be incurred once even by poor 
people, but can not possibly be maintained over 
a dozen years. Now she had taken the matter 
into her own hands, and had done that wliich 
would be ruinous if not successful. She was vent- 
uring lier all upon the die, with the prospect of 
drowning herself on the way out to Patagonia 
should the chances of the game go against her. 
She forgot nothing. She could hardly hope for 
more than one day's hunting ; and yet that had 
been provided for as though slie were going to 
ride with the hounds through all the remainder 
of the season. 

When she reached Mistletoe, there were peo- 
ple going and coming every day, so that an ar- 
rival was no event. She was kissed by her un- 
cle, and welcomed with characteristic coldness 
by her aunt, then allowed to settle in among the 
other guests as though she had been there all tlie 
winter. Every body knew that she was a Trefoil, 
and her presence, therefore, raised no question. 
The Duchess of Omnium was among the guests. 
The duchess knew all about her, and vouchsafed 
to her the smallest possible recognition. Lady 
Cliiltevn had met her before ; and as Lady Cliil- 
tern was always generous, she was gracious to 
Arabella. She was sorry to see Lady Drum- 
mond, because she connected Lady Drummond 
with the Foreign Office, and feared that the con- 
versation might be led to Patagonia and its new 
minister. She contrived to squeeze her uncle's 
hand, and to utter a word of warm thanks, which 
his grace did not perfectly understand. The girl 
was his niece, and the duke had an idea that he 
should be kind to the family of which he was the 
head. His brother's wife had become objection- 
able to him ; but as to the girl, if she wanted a 
home for a week or two, he thought it to be his 
duty to give it to her. 

Mistletoe is an enormous house, with a front- 
age nearly a quarter of a mile long, combining 
as it does all the offices, coach-houses, and sta- 
bles. There is nothing in England more ugly, 
or perhaps more comfortable. It stands in a 
huge park, which, as it is quite flat, never shows 
its size, and is altogether unattractive. The duke 
himself was a hospitable, easy man, who was 
very fond of his dinner, and performed his duties 
well, but could never be touched by any senti- 
ment. He always spent six months in the coun- 
try, in which he acted as landlord to a gieat crowd 
of shooting, hunting, and flirting visitors, and six 
in London, in which he gave dinners and dined 
out, and regularly took his place in the House of 
Lords without ever opening his mouth. He was 
a gray-haired, comely man of sixt}-, with a large 
body and a wonderful appetite. By many who 
understood the subject he was supposed to be the 
best amateur judge of wine in England. His son, 
Lord Mistletoe, was member for the county, and, 
as the duke had no younger sons, he was sup- 
posed to be happy at all points. Lord Mistletoe, 
who had a large fiimil}' of his own, lived twenty 
miles ofi^, so that the father and son could meet 
pleasantly, without fear of quarreling. 

During the iirst evening Arabella did contrive 
to make herself veiy agreeable. She was much 
quieter than had been her wont when at Mistle- 
toe before, and, though there were present two 



or three very well-circumstanced young men, she 
took but little notice of them. She went out to 
dinner with Sir Jefl"rey Bunker, and made her- 
self agreeable to that old gentleman in a remark- 
able manner. After dinner, something having 
been said of the respectable old game called cat's 
cradle, she played it to perfection with Sir Jef- 
frey, till her aunt thought that she must have 
been unaware that Sir Jeffrey had a wife and 
family. She was all smiles and all pleasantness, 
and seemed to want no other happiness than what 
the present moment gave her. Nor did she once 
mention Lord Rutlbrd's name. 

On the next morning after breakfast her aunt 
sent for her to come upstairs. Such a thing 
had never happened to her before. She could 
not recollect that, on any of those annual visits 
which she had made to Mistletoe for more years 
than she now liked to think of, she had ever had 
five minutes' conversation alone with her aunt. 
It liad always seemed that she was to be allowed 
to come and go by reason of her relationship, 
but that she was to receive no special mark of 
confidence or affection. The message was whis- 
pered into her ear by her aunt's own woman, as 
she was listening with great attention to Lady 
Drummond's troubles in regard to her nursery 
arrangements. She nodded her head, heard a 
few more words from Lady Di'ummond, and then, 
with a pretty apology and a statement, made so 
that all should hear her, that her aunt wanted 
her, followed the maid upstairs. 

" My dear," said her aunt, when the door was 
closed, "I want to ask you whether you would 
like me to ask Mr. Morton to come here while 
you are with us?" A thunder-bolt at her feet 
could hardly have siu'prised or annoyed her more. 
If there was one thing that she wanted less than 
another, it was the presence of the Paragon at 
Mistletoe. It would utterly subvert every thing, 
and rob her of every chance. With a great et- 
fort she restrained all emotion, and simply shook 
her head. She did it very well, and betrayed 
nothing. ' ' I ask, " said the duchess, ' ' because I 
have been very glad to hear that you are engaged 
to marry him. Lord Drummond tells me that 
he is a most respectable young man." 

" Mr. Morton will be so much obliged to Lord 
Drummond." 

"And I thought that, if it were so, you would 
be glad that he should meet you here. I could 
manage it very well, as the Drummonds are here, 
and Lord Drummond would be glad to meet him." 

They had not been above a minute or two to- 
gether, and Arabella had been called upon to ex- 
pend her energy in suppressing any expression 
of her horror ; but still, by the time that she was 
called on to speak, she had fabricated her story. 
"Thanks, aunt ; it is so good of you ; and if ev- 
ery thing was going straight, there would be noth- 
ing, of course, that I should like so much." 

" You are engaged to him ?" 

' ' Well, I was going to tell you. I dare say it 
is not his fault ; but papa and mamma and the 
lawyers think that he is not behaving well about 
money — settlements and all that. I suppose it 
will all come right ; but in the mean time per- 
haps I had better not meet him." 

" But you were engaged to him ?" 

This had to be answered without a moment's 
pause. ' ' Yes, " said Arabella ; "I wivs engaged 
to him." 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



"And he Is going out as minister to Patago- 
nia almost immediately ?" 

' ' He is going, I know. " 

"I suppose you will go with liim?" 

This was very hard, Slie could not say that 
she certainly was not going with him. And yet 
she had to remember that her coming campaign 
with Lord Ruiford must be carried on in part be- 
neath her aunt's eyes. When she had come to 
Mistletoe she had fondly hoped that none of the 
family there would know any thing about Mr. 
Morton. And now she was called upon to an- 
swer these horrid questions without a moment's 
notice! "I don't think I shall go with him, 
aunt, though I am unable to say any thing cer- 
tain just at present. If" he behaves badly, of 
course the engagement must be oif. " 

" I hope not. You should think of it very se- 
riously. As for mone}', you know, you have 
none of your own, and I am told that he has a 
very nice property in Rufford. There is a neigh- 
bor of his coming here to-morrow, and perhaps 
he knows him." 

"Who is the neighbor, aunt?" asked Arabel- 
la, innocently. 

"Lord Rufford. He is coming to shoot. I 
will ask him about the property." 

"Pray don't mention my name, aunt. It 
would be so unpleasant if nothing were to come 
of it. I know Lord Rufford very well," 

" Know Lord Rufford very well!" 

"As one does know men that one meets 
about." 

' ' I thought it might settle every thing if we 
had Mr. Morton here." 

"I couldn't meet him, aunt; I couldn't, in- 
deed. Mamma doesn't think that he is behav- 
ing well." To the duchess condemnation from 
Lady Augustus almost amounted to praise. She 
felt sure that Mr. Morton was a worthy man, who 
would not probably behave badly; and though 
she could not unravel the mystery, and certainly 
had no suspicion in regard to Lord Rufford, she 
was sure that there was something wrong. But 
there was nothing moi"e to be said at present. 
After what Arabella had told her, Mr. Morton 
Could not be asked there to meet her niece. But 
all the slight feeling of kindness to the girl which 
had been created by the tidings of so respectable 
an engagement were at once obliterated from the 
duchess's bosom. Arabella, with many expres- 
sions of thanks and a good-humored countenance, 
left the room, cursing the untowardness of her 
fate which would let nothing run smooth. 

Lord Rufford was to come. That, at any rate, 
was now almost certain. Up to the present she 
had doubted, knowing the way in which such men 
will change their engagements at the least ca- 
price. But the duchess expected him on the 
morrow. She had prepared the way for meet- 
ing him as an old friend without causing surprise, 
and had gained that step. But should she suc- 
ceed, as she hoped, in exacting continued hom- 
age from the man — homage for the four or five 
days of his sojourn at Mistletoe — this must be 
carried on with the knowledge on the part of 
many in the house that she was engaged to that 
horrid Patagonian minister! Was ever a girl 
called upon to risk her entire fate under so many 
disadvantages ? 

When she went up to dress for dinner on the 
day of his expected arrival, Lord Rufford had not 



come. Since the interview in her aunt's room, 
she had not heard his name mentioned. When 
she came into the dining-room, a little late, he 
was not there. " We won't wait, duchess," said 
the duke to his wife at three minutes past eight. 
The duke's punctuality at dinner-time was well 
known, and every body else was then assembled. 
Within two minutes after the duke's word, din- 
ner was announced, and a party numbering about 
thirty walked away into the dinner- room. Ara- 
bella, when they were all settled, found that there 
was a vacant seat next herself; If the man were 
to come, fortune would have favored her in that. 

The fish and soup had already disappeared, and 
the duke was wakening himself to eloquence on 
the first entres, when Lord Rufford entered the 
room. ' ' There never were trains so late as yours, 
duchess," he said, "nor any part of the world in 
which hired horses travel so slowly. I beg the 
duke's pardon, but I suffer the less because I 
know his grace never waits for any body." 

" Certainly not," said the duke, "having some 
regard for my friends' dinners. " 

"And I find myself next to j-ou,"said Lord 
Rufford, as he took his seat. "Well; that is 
more than I deserve." 



CHAPTER XXXVIL 

HOW THINGS WERE ARRANGED. 

" Jack is here," said Lord Rufford, as soon as 
the fuss of his late arrival had worn itself away. 

" I shall be proud to renew my acquaintance." 

" Can j'ou come to-morrow?" 

"Oh yes, "said Arabella, rapturously. 

"There are difficulties, and I ought to have 
written to you about them. I am going with the 
Pitzwilliam," Now Mistletoe was in Lincoln- 
shire, not very far from Peterborough, not veiy 
far from Stamford, not very far from Oakham. 
A regular hunting-man like Lord Rufford knew 
how to compass the difficulties of distance in all 
hunting countries. Horses could go by one train 
or overnight, and he could follow by another, 
and a post-chaise could meet him here or there. 
But when a lady is added, the difficulty is often 
increased fivefold. 

" Is it very far?" asked Arabella. 

"It is a little far. I wonder who are going 
from here ?" 

" Heaven only knows. I have passed my time 
in playing cat's cradle with Sir Jeffrey Bunker 
for the amusement of the company, and in con- 
fidential communications with my aunt and Lady 
Drummond. I haven't heard iuinting mention- 
ed." 

"Have you any thing on wheels going across 
to Holcombe Cross to-morrow, duke?" asked 
Lord Rufford. The duke said that he did not 
know of any thing on wheels going to Holcombe 
Cross. Then a hunting-man who had heard tiie 
question said that he and another intended to 
travel by train to Oundle. Upon this Lord Ruf- 
ford turned round and looked at Arabella mourn- 
fully. 

"Can not I go by train to Oundle?" she asked. 

" Nothing on earth so jolly if your pastors and 
masters, and all that, will let you." 

"I haven't got any pastors and masters." . 

' ' The duchess ! " suggested Lord Rufford. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOE. 



89 



"I thought all that kind of nonsense was 
over," said Arabella. 

"I believe a great deal is over. You can do 
many things that your mother and grandmoth- 
er couldn't do ; but absolute freedom — what you 
may call universal suffrage — hasn't come yet, I 
fear. It's twenty miles by road, and the duch- 
ess would say sometiiing awful if I were to pro- 
pose to take you in a post-chaise." 

" But the railway!" 

" I'm afraid that would be worse. We 
couldn't ride back, you know, as we did at Euf- 
ford. At the best, it would be rather a rough- 
and-tumble kind of arrangement. I'm afraid 
we must put it off. To tell j'ou the tnith, I'm 
the least bit in the world afraid of the duchess." 

" I am not at all," said Arabella, angrily. 

Then Lord RufFord eat his dinner, and seem- 
ed to think that that matter was settled. Ara- 
bella knew that he might have hunted elsewhere, 
that the Cottesmore would be out in their own 
county within twelve miles of them, and that the 
difficulty of that ride would be very much less. 
The duke might have been persuaded to send a 
carriage that distance. But Lord RufFord cared 
more about the chance of a good run than her 
company! Por a while she was sulky — for a 
little while, till she remembered how ill she 
could afford to indulge in such a feeling. Then 
she said a demure word or two to the gentleman 
on the other side of her, who happened to be a 
clergyman, and did not return to the hunting 
till Lord RufFord had eaten his cheese. "And 
is that to be the end of Jack as fiir as I am con- 
cerned ?" 

" I have been thinking about it ever since. 
This is Thursday." 

"Not a doubt about it." 

"To-morrow will be Friday, and the duke 
has his great shooting on Saturday. There's 
nothing within a hundred miles of us on Satur- 
day. I shall go with the Pytchley if I don't 
shoot, but I shall have to get up just when other 
people are going to bed. That wouldn't suit 
you." 

" I wouldn't mind if I didn't go to bed at all." 

"At any rate, it wouldn't suit the duchess. 
I had meant to go away on Sunday. I hate be- 
ing anywhere on Sunday except in a railway- 
carriage. But if I thought the duke would keep 
me till Tuesday morning, we might manage Pel- 
try on Monday. I meant to have got back to 
Surbiton's on Sunday, and have gone from 
there." 

" Where is Peltry ?" 

" It's a Cottesmore meet, about five miles this 
side of Melton." 

"We could ride from here." 

"It's rather far for that, but we could talk 
over the duke to send a can-iage. Ladies al- 
ways like to see a meet, and perhaps we could 
make a party. If not, we must put a good face 
on it, and go in any thing we can get. I shouldn't 
fear the duchess so much for twelve miles as I 
should for twenty." 

" I don't mean to let the duchess interfere 
with me," said Arabella, in a whisper. 

That evening Lord RufFord was very good- 
natured, and managed to arrange every thing. 
Lady Chiltern and another lady said that they 
would be glad to go to the meet, and a carriage 
or carriages were organized. But nothing, was 



said as to Arabella's hunting, because the ques- 
tion would immediately be raised as to her re- 
turn to Mistletoe in the evening. It was, how- 
ever, understood that she was to have a place in 
the carriage. 

Arabella had gained two things. She would 
have her one day's hunting, and she had secured 
the presence of Lord Rufford at Mistletoe for 
Sunday. With such a man as his lordship it 
was almost impossible to find a moment for con- 
fidential conversation. He worked so hard at 
his amusements that he was as bad a lover as a 
barrister who has to be in court all day — almost 
as bad as a sailor who is always going round the 
world. On this evening it was ten o'clock before 
the gentlemen came into the drawing-room, and 
then Lord Rufltbrd's time was spent in arranging 
the party for the meet on Monday. When the 
ladies went up to bed, Arabella, had had no other 
opportunity than what Fortune had given her at 
dinner. 

And even then she had been watched. That 
juxtaposition at the dinner -table had come of 
chance, and had been caused by Lord RufFord's 
late arrival. Old Sir Jeffrey should have been 
her neighbor, with the clergyman on the other 
side — an arrangement which her grace had 
thought safe with reference to the rights of the 
minister to Patagonia. The duchess, though 
she was at some distance down the table, had 
seen that her niece and Lord RufFord were inti- 
mate, and rememberpd immediately what had 
been said upstairs. 'I'hey could not have talked 
as they were then talking — sometimes whisper- 
ing, as the duchess could perceive very well — 
unless there had been considerable former inti- 
macy. She began gradually to understand vari- 
ous things — why Arabella Trefoil had been so 
anxious to come to Mistletoe just at this time, 
why she had behaved so unlike her usual self 
before Lord RufFord's arrival, and why she had 
been so unwilling to have Mr. Morton invited. 
The duchess was, in her way, a clever woman, 
and could see many things. Slie could see that, 
though her niece might be very anxious to mar- 
ry Lord RufFord, Lord Rufford might indulge 
himself in a close intimacy with the girl, without 
any such intention on his part. And, as far as 
the family was concerned, she would liave been 
quite contented with the Morton alliance. She 
would have asked Morton now, only that it 
would be impossible that he should come in time 
to be of service. Had she been consulted in the 
first instance, she would have put her veto on 
that drive to the meet; but she had heard noth- 
ing about it till Lady Chiltern had said that she 
would go. The Duchess of Omnium had since 
declared that she also would go, and there were 
to be two carriages. But still it never occurred 
to the duchess that Arabella intended to hunt. 
Nor did Arabella intend that she should know it 
till the morning came. 

The Friday was very dull. The hunting-men 
of course had gone before Arabella came down 
to breakfast. She would willingly have got up 
at seven to pour out Lord RufFord's tea, had that 
been possible; but, as it was, she strolled into 
the breakfast-room at half-past ten. She could 
see by her aunt's eye, and hear in her voice, that 
she was in part detected, and that she would do 
herself no further service by acting the good girl ; 
and she therefore resolutely determined to listen 



90 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



to no more twaddle. She read a French novel 
which she had brought with her, and spent as 
much of the day as she could in her bedroom. 
She did not see Lord RufFord before dinner, and 
at dinner sat between Sir Jeffrey and an old gen- 
tleman out of Stamford who dined at Mistletoe 
that evening. "We've had no such luck to- 
night," Lord Rufford said to her in the drawing- 
room. 

"The old dragon took care of that," replied 
Arabella. 

"Why should the old dragon think that I'm 
dangerous ?" 

' ' Because — 1 can't very well tell you why, 
hut I dare say you know." 

"And do you think I am dangerous?" 

"You're a sort of a five-barred gate," said 
Arabella, laughing. ' ' Of course there is a lit- 
tle danger, but jvho is going to be stopped by 
that ?" 

He could make no reply to this, because the 
duchess called him away to give some account to 
Lady Chiltern about Goarly and the U.R.U., 
Lady Chiltern's husband being a master of 
hounds, and a great authority on all matters re- 
lating to hunting. "Nasty old dragon!" Ara- 
hella said to herself when she was thus left 
alone. 

The Saturday was the day of the great shoot- 
ing, and at two o'clock the ladies went out to 
lunch with the gentlemen by the side of the wood. 
Lord Rufford had at last consented to be one of 
the party. With logs of trees, a few hurdles, 
and other field appliances, a rustic banqueting- 
hall was prepared, and every thing was very nice. 
Tons of game had been killed, and tons more 
were to be killed after luncheon. The duchess 
was not there, and Arabella contrived so to place 
herself that she could be waited upon by Lord 
Rufford, or could wait upon him. Of course a 
great many eyes were upon her, but she knew 
how to sustain that. Nobody was present who 
could dare to interfere wth her. When the eat- 
ing and drinking were over, she walked with him 
to his corner by the next covert, not heeding the 
other ladies, and she stood with him for some 
minutes after the slaughter had begun. She had 
come to feel that the time was slipping between 
her fingers, and that she must say something ef- 
fective. The fatal word upon which every thing 
would depend must be spoken, at the very latest, 
on their return home from hunting on Monday, 
and she was aware that much must probably be 
said before that. "Do we hunt or shoot to-mor- 
row ?" she said. 

"To-morrow is Sunday." 

" I am quite aware of that, but I didn't know 
whether you could live a day without sport." 

" The country is so full of prejudice that I am 
driven to Sabbatical quiescence." 

" Take a walk with me to-morrow," said Ara- 
bella. 

"But the duchess !" exclaimed Lord Rufford, 
in a stage whisper. One of tlie beaters was so 
near that he could not but have heard ; but what 
does a beater signify ? 

" H'm, h'm, the duchess ! You he at the path 
behind the great conservatory at half-past three, 
and we won't mind the duchess." Lord Rufford 
was forced to ask for many otiier particulars as 
to the locality, and then promised that he would 
be there at the time named. 



CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

"xOtJ ARE SO SEVERE." 

On the next morning Arabella went to church, 
as did, of course, a great many of the party. 
By remaining at home, she could only have ex- 
cited suspicion, Tlie church was close to the 
house, and the family pew consisted of a large 
room screened off from the I'est of the church, 
with a fire-place of its own, so that the labor of 
attending divine service was reduced to a mini- 
mum. At two o'clock they lunched, and that 
amusement lasted nearly an hour. There was 
an afternoon service at three, in attending which 
the duchess was very particular. The duke nev- 
er went at that time, nor was it expected that 
any of the gentlemen would do so ; but ladies 
are supposed to require more church than men, 
and the duchess rather made it a point tliat, at 
any I'ate, the young ladies staying in the house 
should accompany her. Over the other young 
ladies there her authority could only be that of 
influence, but such .authority generally sufliced. 
From her niece it might be supposed that she 
would exact obedience, and in this instance she 
tried it. " We start in five minutes," she said to 
Arabella, as that young lady was loitering at the 
table. 

"Don't wait for me, aunt; I'm not going," 
said Arabella, boldly. 

" I hope you will come to church with us," said 
the duchess, sternlj'. 

"Not this afternoon." 

" Why not, Arabella ?" 

"I never go to church twice on Simdays. 
Some people do, and some people don't. I sup- 
pose that's about it." 

"I think that all young women ought to go to 
church on Sunday afternoon, unless there is some- 
thing particular to prevent them." Arabella 
shrugged her shoulders, and the duchess stalked 
angrily away. 

"That makes me feel so awfully wicked," said 
the Duchess of Omnium, who was the only other 
lady then left in the room. Then she got up and 
went out, and Arabella, of course, followed her. 
Lord Rufford had heard it all, but had stood at 
the window and said nothing. He had not been 
to church at all, and was quite accustomed to the 
idea that, as a young nobleman who only lived 
for pleasure, he was privileged to be wicked. 
Had the Duchess of Mayfair been blessed with 
a third daughter fit for marriage, she would not 
have thought of repudiating such a suitor as Lord 
Rufford because he did not go to church. 

When the house was cleared, Arabella went 
upstairs and put on her hat. It was a bright, 
beautiful winter's day ; not painfully cold, be- 
cause the air was dry, but still a day that war- 
ranted furs and a muff. Having prepared her- 
self, she made her way alone to a side door which 
led from a branch of the hall on to the garden 
terrace, and up and down that she walked two 
or three times ; so that any of the household that 
saw her might perceive that she had come out 
simply for exercise. At the end of the third 
turn, instead of coming back, she went on quick- 
ly to the conservatory, and took the path which 
led round to the forther side. There was a small 
lawn here fitted for garden games, and on the 
other end of it an iron gate leading to a path into 
the woods. At the farther side of the iron gate, 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



91 



and leaning against it, stood Lord Rufford, smok- 
ing a cigar. She did not pause a moment, but 
hurried across the lawn to join him. He opened 
the gate, and she passed through. "I'm not 
going to be done by a dragon," she said, as she 
toolv her place along-side of him. 

" Upon my word, Miss Trefoil, I don't think 
I ever knew a human being with so much pluck 
as you have got," 

" Girls have to have pluck — if they don't mean 
to be sat upon — a great deal more than men. 
The idea of telling me tliat I was to go to church, 
as though I were twelve years old !" 

"What would she say if she knew that you 
were walking here with me ?" 

"I don't care what she'd say. I dare say she 
walked with somebody once, only I should think 
the somebody must have found it very dull." 

"Does she know that you're to hunt to-mor- 
row ?" 

"I haven't told her, and don't mean. I shall 
just come down in my habit and hat, and say 
nothing about it. At what time must we start ?" 
" The carriages are ordered for half-past nine. 
But I'm afraid you haven't clearly before your 
eyes all the difficulties which are incidental to 
hunting." 

" What do you mean ?" 
' ' It looks as like a black frost as any thing I 
ever saw in my life." 
" But we should go ?" 

" The horses ^ton't be there if there is really a 
hard frost. Nobody would stir. It will be the 
first question I shall ask the man wlien he comes 
to me ; and if there have been seven or eight de- 
grees of frost, I sha'n't get up. " 
" How am I to know ?" 
' ' My man shall tell your maid. But every 
body will soon know all about it. It will alter 
every thing," 

"I think I shall go mad." 
"In white satin?"' 

"No; in my habit and hat. It will be the 
hardest thing, after all! I ought to have insist- 
ed on going to Holcombe Cross on Friday. The 
sun is shining now. Surely it can not freeze." 
" It will be uncommonly ill-bred if it does." 
But, after all, the hunting was not the main 
point. The hunting had been only intended as 
an opportunity ; and if that were to be lost — in 
which case Lord Rufford would no doubt at once 
leave Mistletoe — there was the more need for 
using the present hour, the more for using even 
the present minute. Though she had said that 
the sun was shining, it was the setting sun, and 
in another half- hour the gloom of the evening 
would be there. Even Lord Rufford would not 
consent to walk about with her in the dark. 
"Oh, Lord Rufford," she said, "I did so look 
forward to your giving me another lead." Then 
she put her hand upon his arm and left it there. 
"It would have been nice," said he, drawing 
her hand a little on, and I'eniembering, as he did 
so, his own picture of himself on the cliff with 
his sister holding his coat-tails. 

"If you could possibly know," she said, " the 
condition I am in." 
"What condition?" 

" I know that I can trust you. I am sure that 
I can trust you." 

" Oh dear, yes. If you mean about telling, I 
never tell any thing." 



" That's what I do mean. You remember 
that man at your place ?" 

"What man? Poor Caneback?" 

"Oh dear, no! I wish they could change 
places, because then he could give me no more 
trouble." 

" That's wishing him to be dead, whoever he 
is." 

"Yes. Why should he persecute me? I 
mean that man we were staying with at Brag- 
ton." 

"Mr. Morton?" 

" Of course I do. Don't you remember your 
asking me about him, and my telling you that I 
was not engaged to him ?" 

"I remember that." 

"Mamma and this horrid old duchess here 
want me to marry him. They've got an idea 
that he is going to be embassador at Pekin, or 
something very grand, and they're at me day 
and night." 

"You needn't take him unless you like him." 

"They do make me so miserable!" And 
then she leaned heavily upon his arm. He was 
a man who could not stand such pressure as 
this without returning it. Though he were on 
the precipice, and though he must go over, still 
he could not stand it. "You remember that 
night after the ball ?" 

"Indeed I do." 

"And you, too, had asked me whether I cared 
for that horrid man." 

"I didn't see any thing horrid. You had 
been staying at his house, and people had told 
me. What was I to think ?" 

"You ought to have known what to think. 
There ; let me go "-r-for now he had got his arm 
round her waist. "You don't care for me a bit. 
I know you don't. It would be all the same to 
you whom I married, or whether I died." 

"You don't think that, Bella?" He fancied 
that he had heard her mother call her Bella, 
and that the name was softer and easier than the 
full four syllables. It was, at any rate, some- 
thing for her to have gained. 

"I do think it. When I came here on pur- 
pose to have a skurry over the country with you, 
you went away to Holcombe Cross, though you 
could have hunted here close in the neighbor- 
hood. And now you tell me there will be * 
frost to-moiTow." 

" Can I help that, darling?" 

"Darling! I ain't your darling. You don't 
care a bit for me. I believe you hope there'll be 
a frost." He pressed her tighter, but laughed 
as he did so. It was evidently a joke to him — 
a pleasant joke, no doubt. "Leave me alone. 
Lord Rufford, I won't let you, for I know you 
don't love me." Very suddenly lie did leave his 
hold of her and stood erect, with his hands in 
his pockets, for the rustle of a dress was heai'd. 
It was still daylight, but the light was dim, and 
the last morsel of the grandeur of the sun had 
ceased to be visible through the trees. Tiie 
church-going people had been released, and the 
duchess, having probably heard certain tidings, 
had herself come to take a walk in the shrubbery 
behind the conservatory. Arabella had proba- 
bly been unaware that she and her compd^ion, 
by a turn in the walks, were being brought back 
toward the iron gate. As it was, they met the 
duchess face to face. 



92 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



Lord Rufford had spoken the truth when he 
had said that he was a little afraid of the duchess. 
Such was liis fear that at the moment he hardly 
knew what he was to say. Arabella had boast- 
ed when she had declared that she was not at 
all afraid of her aunt ; but she was steadfastly 
minded that she would not be cowed by her 
fears. She had known beforehand that she 
would have occasion for much presence of mind, 
and was prepared to exercise it at a moment's 
notice. She was the first to speak. "Is that 
you, aunt? You are out of church very soon." 

"Lord RufFord," said the duchess, "I don't 
think this is a proper time for walking out." 

' ' Don't you, duchess ? The air is very nice. " 

"It is becoming dark, and my niece had bet- 
ter return to the house with me. Arabella, you 
can come this way. It is just as short as the 
other. If you go on straight, Lord Rufford, it 
will take you to the house." Of course Lord 
Rufford went on straight, and of course Arabella 
had to turn with her aunt. " Such conduct as 
this is shocking," began the duchess. 

"Aunt, let me tell you." 

"What can you tell me?" 

* ' I can tell you a great deal, if you will let me. 
Of course, I am quite prepared to own that I did 
not intend to tell you any thing." 

" I can well believe that." 

" Because I could hardly hope for your sym- 
pathy. You hare never liked me. " 

" You have no right to say that." 

"I don't do it in the way of finding fault. I 
don't know why you should. But I have been 
too much afraid of you to tell you my secrets. 
I must do so now because you have found me 
walking with Lord Rufford. I could not other- 
wise excuse myself." 

" Is he engaged to marry you ?" 

"He has asked me." 

"No!" 

" But he has, aunt. You must be a little pa- 
tient, and let me tell it yon all. Mamma did 
make up an engagement between me and Mr. 
Morton at Washington." 

' ' Did you know Lord RufFord then ?" 

"I knew him, but did not think he was be- 
having quite well. It is very hard sometimes to 
know what a man means. I was angry when I 
%^ent to Washington. He has told me since 
that he loves me, and has offered." 

"But you are engaged to marry the other 
man." 

"Nothing on earth shall make me marry Mr. 
Morton. Mamma did it, and mamma now has 
very nearly broken it off, because she says he is 
very shabby about money. Indeed, it is broken 
off. I had told him so even before Lord Rufford 
had proposed to me." 

"When did he propose, and where?" 

"At Rufford. We were staying there in No- 
vember. " 

"And you asked to come here, that you might 
meet him ?" 

' ' Just 60. Was that strange ? Where could 
I be better pleased to meet him tlian in my own 
uncle's house ?" 

"Yes ; if you had told us all this before." 

"Perhaps I ought; but you are so severe, 
aunt, that I did not dare. Do not turn against 
me now. My uncle could not but like that his 
niece should marry Lord Rufford." 



" How can I turn against you if it is settled? 
Lord Rufford can do as he pleases. Has he told 
your father, or your mother ?" 

" Mamma knows it." 

"But not from him ?" asked the duchess. 

Arabella paused a moment, but hardly a mo- 
ment, before she answered. It was hard upon 
her that she should have to make up her mind 
on matters of such importance with so little time 
for consideration. "Yes," she said, "mamma 
knows it from him. Papa is so very indifferent 
about every thing that Lord Rufford has not 
spoken to him." 

"If so, it will be best that the duke should 
speak to him." 

There was another pause, but hardly long 
enough to attract notice. "Perhaps so," she 
said ; ' ' but not quite yet. He is so peculiar, so 
touchy. The duke is not quite like my fother, 
and he would think himself suspected." 

"I can not imagine that, if he is in ear- 
nest." 

"That is because you do not know him as I 
do. Only think where I should be if I were to 
lose him!" 

"Lose him!" 

" Oh, aunt, now that you know it, I do hope 
that you will be my friend. It would kill me if 
he were to throw me over now. " 

"But why should he throw you over if he 
proposed to you only lasfmonth?" 

"He might do it if he thought that he were 
interfered with. Of course I should like my un- 
cle to speak to him, but not quite immediately. 
If he were to say that he had changed his mind, 
what could I do, or what could my uncle do ?" 

"That would be very singular conduct." 

"Men are so different now, aunt. They give 
themselves so much more latitude. A man has 
only to say that he has changed his mind, and 
nothing ever comes of it." 

"I have never been used to such men, my 
dear." 

"At any rate, don't ask the duke to speak to 
him to-day. I will think about it, and perhaps 
3'ou will let me see you to-morrow, after we all 
come in." To this the duchess gravely assented. 
"And I hope you won't be angry because you 
found me walking with him, or because I did not 
go to church. It is every thing to me. I am 
sure, dear aunt, you will understand that." To 
this the duchess made no reply, and they both 
entered the house together. What became of 
Lord Rufford neither of them saw. 

Arabella, when she regained her room, thought 
that, upon the whole, fortune had favored her 
by throwing her aunt in her way. She had, no 
doubt, been driven to tell a series of barefuced, 
impudent lies — lies of such a nature that they 
almost made her own hair stand on end as she 
thought of them ; but they would matter nothing 
if she succeeded ; and, if she failed in this mat- 
ter, she did not care much what her aunt thought 
of her. Her aunt might now give her a good 
turn ; and some lie she must have told, sucli had 
been the emergencies of her position ! As she 
thought of it all, she was glad that her aunt had 
met her; and when Lord Rufford was summon- 
ed to take her out to dinner on that very Sunday 
— a matter as to which her aunt managed every 
thing herself — she was immediately aware that 
her lies had done her good service. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOE. 



93 



"This was more than I expected," Lord Ruf- 
ford said when they were seated. 

"She knew that she had overdone it when 
she sent you away in that cavalier way," replied 
Arabella ; " and now she wants to show that she 
didn't mean any thing." 



CmVPTER XXXIX. 

THE DAY AT PKLTKY. 

The duchess did tell the duke the whole sto- 
ry about Lord Ruiford and Arabella that night 
— as to which it may be said that she also was 
false. But, according to her conscience, there 
were two ways of telling such a secret. As a 
matter of course, she told her husband every 
thing. That idle, placid, dinner-loving man was 
in truth consulted about each detail of the house 
and family ; but the secret was told to him with 
injunctions that he was to say nothing about it 
to any one for twenty -four hours. After that 
the duchess was of opinion that he should speak 
to Lord RufFord. " What could I say to him ?" 
asked the duke. "I'm not her father." 

" But your brother is so indifferent." 

" No doubt. But that gives me no authority. 
If he does mean to marry the girl, he must go to 
her father ; or it is possible that he might come 
to me. But if he does not mean it, what can I 
do?" He promised, however, that he would 
think of it. 

It was still dark night, or the morning was still 
dark as night, when Arabella got out of bed and 
opened her window. The coming of a frost now 
might ruin her : the absence of it might give her 
every thing in life that she wanted. Lord Ruf- 
ford had promised her a tedious communication, 
through servants, as to the state of the weather. 
She was far too energetic, far too much in ear- 
nest, to wait for that. She opened the window, 
and, putting out her hand, she felt a drizzle of 
rain. And the air, though the damp from it 
seemed to chill her all through, was not a frosty 
air. She stood there a minute so as to be sure, 
and then retreated to her bed. 

Fortune was again favoring her ; but, then, how 
would it be if it should turn to hard rain ? In 
that case. Lady Chiltern and the other ladies cer- 
tainly would not go ; and how in such case should 
she get herself conveyed to the meet ? She would, 
at any rate, go down in her hat and habit, and 
trust that somebody would provide for her. 
There might be much that would be disagreea- 
ble and difficult, but hardly any thing could be 
worse than the necessity of telling such lies as 
those which she had fabricated on the previous 
afternoon. 

She had been much in doubt whether her aunt 
had or had not believed her. That the belief 
was not a thorough belief, she was almost certain. 
But, then, there was the great fact that after the 
story had been told she had been sent out to din- 
ner leaning on Lord RuflFord's arm. Unless her 
aunt had believed something, that would not have 
taken place. And, then, so much of it was true. 
Surely it would be impossible that he should not 
propose after what had occurred ! Her aunt was 
evidently alive to the advantage of the marriage 
— to the advantage which would accrue, not to 



her, Arabella, individually, but to the Trefoils 
generally. She almost thought that her aunt 
would not put spokes on her wheel for this day. 
She wished now that she had told her aunt that 
she intended to hunt, so that there need not be 
any surprise. 

She slept again, and again looked out of the 
window. It rained a little, but still there were 
hours in which the rain might cease. Again she 
slept, and at eight her maid brought her word 
that there would be hunting. It did rain a little, 
but very little. Of course she would dress her- 
self in riding attire. 

At nine o'clock she walked, into the breakfast 
parlor properly equipped for the day's sport. 
There were four or five men there in red coats 
and top-boots, among whom Lord Rufford was 
conspicuous. They were just seating themselves 
at the breakfast-table, and her aunt was already 
in her place. Lady Chiltern had come into the 
room with herself, and at the door had spoken 
some good-natured words of surprise. "I did 
not know that you were a sportswoman. Miss 
Trefoil." " I do ride a little when I am well 
mounted," Arabella had said as she entered the 
room. Then she collected herself, and arranged 
her countenance, and endeavored to look as 
though she were doing the most ordinary thing 
in the world. She went round the room and 
kissed her aunt's brow. This she had not done 
on any other morning ; but, then, on other morn- 
ings she had been late. 

"Are you going to ride?" said the duchess. 

"I believe so, aunt." 

"Who is giving you a horse ?" 

"Lord Rufford is lending me one. I don't 
think even his good-natui-e will extend to giving 
away so peifect an animal. I know him well, 
for I rode him when I was at RufFord." This 
she said so that all the room should hear her. 

" You need not be afraid, duchess," said Lord 
Rufford. " He is quite safe." 

"And his name is Jack," said Arabella, laugh- 
ing, as she took her place with a little air of tri- 
umph. "Lord RufFord ofJered to let me have 
him all the time I was here, but I didn't know 
whether you would take me in so attended." 

There was not one who heard her who did not 
feel that she spoke as though Lord RufFord were 
all her own. Lord RufFord felt it himself, an«> 
almost thougiit that he might as well turn him- 
self round and bid his sister and Miss Penge let 
him go. He must mai'ry some day, and why 
should not this girl do as well as any one else ? 
The duchess did not approve of young ladies 
hunting. She certainly would not have had her 
niece at Mistletoe had she expected such a per- 
formance. But she could not find fault now. 
There was a feeling in her bosom that, if there 
were an engagement, it would be cruel to cause 
obstructions. She certainly could not allow a 
lover in her house for her husband's niece with- 
out having official authenticated knowledge of 
the respectability of the lover; but the whole 
thing had come upon her so suddenly that she 
was at a loss what to do or what to say. It cer- 
tainly did not seem to her that Arabella was in 
the least afraid of being found out in any untruth. 
If the girl were about to become Lady RufFord, 
then it would be for Lord RufFord to decide 
whether or no she should hunt. Soon after this 
the duke came in, and he also alluded to his 



94 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



niece's costume, and was informed that she was 
to ride one of Lord RuflFord's horses. 

"I didn't hear it mentioned before," said the 
duke. 

"He'll carry Miss Trefoil quite safely," said 
Lord Rufford, who was at the moment standing 
over a game- pie on the sideboard. Then the 
subject was allowed to drop. 

At half-past nine there was no rain, and the 
ladies were so punctual that the carriages abso- 
lutely started at ten. Some of the men rode on ; 
one got a seat on the carriage ; and Lord Ruf- 
ford drove himself and a friend in a dog -cart 
tandem. The tandem was off before the car- 
riages, but Lord Rufford assured them that he 
would get the master to allow them a quarter of 
an hour. Arabella contrived to say one word to 
him. "If you start without me, I'll never speak 
to you again." He nodded and smiled ; but per- 
haps thought that if so, it might be as well that 
he should start without waiting for her. 

At the last moment the duchess had taken it 
into her head that she too would go to tiie meet. 
No doubt she was actuated by some feehng in 
regard to her niece ; but it was not till Arabella 
was absolutely getting on to Jack at the side of 
the carriage — under the auspices of Jack's own- 
er — that the idea occurred to her grace that there 
would be a great difiSculty as to the return home. 
"Arabella, how do you mean to get back?" she 
asked. 

"That will be all right, aunt," said Arabella. 

"I will see to that," said Lord Rufford. 

The gracious but impatient master of the 
hounds had absolutely waited full twenty min- 
utes for the duchess's party, and was not minded 
to wait a minute longer for conversation. The 
moment that the carriages were there, the hunts- 
men had started, so that there was an excuse for 
hurry. Lord Rufford, as he was speaking, got 
on to his own horse, and before the duchess 
could expostulate they were away. There was 
a feeling of triumph in Arabella's bosom, as she 
told herself that she had at any rate secured her 
day's hunting in spite of such heart-breaking 
difficulties. 

The sport was fairly good. They had twenty 
minutes in the morning, and a kill. Then they 
drew a big wood, during which they eat their 
hinch and drank their sherry. In the big wood 
they found a fox, but could not do any thing 
with him. After that they came on a third in 
a stubble-field, and ran him well for half an hour, 
when he went to ground. It was then three 
o'clock ; and as the days were now at the short- 
est, the master decUned to draw again. They 
were then about sixteen miles from Mistletoe, 
and about ten from Stamford, where Lord Ruf- 
ford's horses were standing. The distance from 
Stamford to Mistletoe was eight. Lord Rufford 
proposed that they should ride to Stamford, and 
then go home in a hired carriage. There seem- 
ed, indeed, to be no otiier way of getting home 
without taldng three tired horses fourteen miles 
out of their way. Arabella made no objection 
whatever to the arrangement. Lord Rufford did 
in truth make a slight effort — the slightest pos- 
sible — to induce a third person to join their par- 
ty. There was still something pulling at his 
coat-tail, so that there might yet be a chance of 
saving him from the precipice. But he failed. 
The tired horseman before whom the suggestion 



was casually thrown out \vould have been de- 
lighted to accept it, instead of riding all the way 
to Mistletoe ; but he did not look upon it as made 
in earnest. Two, he knew, were company, and 
three none. 

The hunting-field is by no means a place suit- 
ed for real love-making. Veiy much of prelim- 
inary conversation may be done there in a pleas- 
ant way, and intimacies may be formed. But 
when lovers have already walked, with arms 
round each other, in a wood, riding together may 
be very pleasant, but can hardly be ecstatic. 
Lord Ruiibrd might indeed have asked her to be 
Lady R. while they were breaking up the first 
fox, or as they loitered about in the big wood ; 
but she did not expect that. There was no mo- 
ment during the day's sport in which she had a 
right to tell herself that he was misbehaving be- 
cause he did not so ask her. But in a post- 
chaise it would be different. 

At the inn at Stamford the horses were given 
up, and Arabella condescended to take a glass 
of cherry brandy. She had gone through a long 
day. It was then half-past four, and she was 
not used to be many hours on horseback. The 
fatigue seemed to her to be very much greater 
than it had been when she got back to Rufford 
immediately after the fatal accident. The ten 
miles along the road, which had been done in lit- 
tle more than an hour, had almost overcome her. 
She had determined not to cry for mercy, as the 
hard trot went on. She had passed herself off 
as an accustomed horsewoman, and, having done 
so well across the country, would not break down 
coming home. But, as she got into the carriage, 
she was very tired. She could almost have cried 
with fatigue; and yet she told herself that now 
— now — must the work be done. She would 
perhaps tell him that she was tired. She might 
even assist her cause by her languor ; but, 
though she should die for it, she would not waste 
her pi'ecious moments by absolute rest. "May 
I light a cigar?" he said, as he got in. 

"You know you may. "Wherever I may be 
with you, do you think that I would interfere 
with your gratifications ?" 

" You are the best girl in all the world," he 
said, as he took out his case and threw himself 
back in the corner. 

"Do you call that a long day?" she asked, 
when he had lighted his cigar. 

"Not very long." 

"Because I am so tired." 

"We came home pretty sharp. I thought it 
best not to sliock her grace by too great a stretch 
into the night. As it is, you will have time to 
go to bed for an hour or two before you dress. 
That's what I do when I am in time. You'll be 
right as a trivet then." 

"Oh; I'm right now, only tired. It was very 
nice." 

"Pretty well. We ought to have killed that 
last fox. And why on earth we made nothing 
of that follow in Gooseberry Grove I couldn't un- 
derstand. Old Tony would never have left that 
fox alive above-ground. Would you like to go 
to sleep ?" 

"Oh dear, no!" 

"Afraid of gloves?" said he, drawing nearer 
to her. They might pull him as they liked by 
his coat-tails, but, as he was in a post-chaise with 
her, he must make himself agreeable. She 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



95 



shook her head and laughed, as she looked at 
liim through the gloom. Then, of course, he 
kissed her. 

"Lord Rafford, what does this mean?" 

"Don't you know what it means ?" 

"Hardly." 

"It means that I thint you the joUiest girl 
out. I never liked any body so well as I do 
you." 

" Peiiiaps you never liked any body," said 
she. 

"Well — yes, I have; but I am not going to 
boast of what fortune has done for me in that 
way. I wonder whether you care for me ?" 

" Do you want to know ?" 

"I should Hke to know. You have never 
said that you did." 

"Because you have never asked me." 

"Am I not asking you now, Bella?" 

"There are different ways of asking, but there 
is only one way that will get an answer froni 
me. No, no. I will not have it. I have al- 
lowed too much to you already. Oh, I am so 
tired." Then she sunk back almost into his 
arms, but recovered herself very quickly. " Lord 
RufFord," she said, "if you are a man of honor, 
let there be an end of this. I am sure you do 
not wish to make me wretched." 

" I would do any thing to make you happy." 

"Then tell me that you love me, honestly, 
sincerely, with all your heart, and I shall be 
happy." 

"You know I do." 

" Do you ? Do you ?" she said, and then she 
flung herself on to his shoulder, and for a while 
she seemed to faint. For a few minutes she lay 
there, and as she was lying she calculated wheth- 
er it would be better to try at this moment to 
drive him to some clearer declaration, or to 
make use of what he had already said, without 
giving him an opportunity of protesting that he 
had not meant to make her an offer of marriage. 
He had declared that he loved her honestly, and 
with his whole heart. Would not that justify 
her in setting her uncle at him ? And might it 
not be that the duke would carry great weight 
with him — that the duke might induce him to 
utter the fatal word, though she, were she to de- 
mand it now, might fail ? As she thought of it 
all, she affected to swoon, and almost herself be- 
lieved that she was swooning. She was con- 
scious, but hardly more than conscious, that he 
was kissing her ; and yet her brain was at work. 
She felt that he would be startled, repelled, per- 
haps disgusted, were she absolutely to demand 
more from him now. ' ' Oh, Rufford ! oh, my 
dearest !" she said, as she woke up, and with her 
face close to his, so that he could look into her 
eyes and see their brightness, even through the 
gloom. Then she extricated herself from his 
embrace with a shudder and a laugh. "You 
would hardly believe how tired I am," she said, 
putting out her ungloved hand. He took it and 
drew her to him, and there she sat in his arms 
for the short remainder of the journey. 

They were now in the park, and as the lights 
of the house came in sight, he gave her some 
counsel. " Go up to your room at once, dearest, 
and lie down." 

"I will. I don't think I could go in among 
them. I should fall." 
. "I will see the duchess, and tell lier that you 



are all right, but very tired. If she goes up to 
you, you had better see her. " 

"Oh yes. But I had rather not." 

"She'll be sure to come. And, Bella, Jack 
must be yours now." 

"You are joking." 

' ' Never more serious in my life. Of course 
he must remain with me just at present, but he 
is your horse." Then, as the carriage was stop- 
ping, she took his hand and kissed it. 

She got to her room as quickly as possible; 
and then, before she had even taken off her hat, 
she sat down to think of it all, sending her maid 
away meanwhile to fetch her a cup of tea. He 
must have meant it for an offer. There had, at 
any rate, been enough to justify her in so taking 
it. The present he had made to her of the 
horse could mean nothing else. Under no oth- 
er circumstances would it be possible that slie 
should either take the horse or use him. Cer- 
tainly it was an offer, and as such she would in- 
struct her uncle to use it. Then she allowed 
her imagination to revel in thoughts of Rufford 
Hall, of the Rufford house in town, and a final 
end to all those Aveary labors which she would 
thus have brought to so glorious a termination ! 



CHAPTER XL. 

LORD KUFFOKD AVAKTS TO SEE A HORSE. 

Lord Rufford had been quite right about 
the duchess. Arabella had only taken off her 
hat, and was drinking her tea, when the duchess 
came up to her. " Lord Rufford says that you 
were too tired to come in," said the duchess. 

"I am tired, aunt — very tired. But there is 
nothing the matter with me. We had to ride 
ever so far, coming home, and it was that 
knocked me up." 

" It was very bad, your coming home with 
him in a post-chaise, Arabella.". 

" Why was it bad, aunt ? I thought it very 
nice." 

" My dear, it shouldn't have been done. You 
ought to have known that. I certainly wouldn't 
have had you here, had I thought that there 
would be any thing of the kind." 

"It is going to be all right," said Arabella, 
laughing. 

According to her grace's view of things, it was 
not, and could not be made, ' ' all right. " It would 
not have been all right were the girl to become 
Lady Rufford to-morrow. The scandal, or loud 
reproach due to evil doings, may be silenced by 
subsequent conduct. The merited punishment 
may not come visibly. But nothing happening 
after could make it right that a j'oung lady should 
come home from hunting in a post-chaise alone 
with a young unmarried man. When the duch- 
ess first heard it, she thought what would have 
been her feelings if such a thing had been sug- 
gested in reference to one of her own daughters ! 
Lord Rufford had come to her in the drawing- 
room, and had told her the story in a quiet, pleas- 
ant manner, merely saying that Miss Trefoil was 
too much fatigued to show herself at the present 
moment. She had thought, from his manner, 
that her niece's story had been true. There was 
a cordiality, and apparent earnestness as to the 
girl's comfort, which seemed to be compatible with 



96 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



the story ; but still she could hardly understand 
that Lord Rufford should wish to have it known 
that he traveled about the country in such a fash- 
ion with the girl he intended to marry. But if 
it were true, then she must look after her niece. 
And even if it were not true — in which case she 
"would never have the girl at Mistletoe again — yet 
she could not ignore her presence in the house. 
It was now the 18th of January. Lord Rufford 
was to go on the following day, and Arabella on 
the 20th. The invitation had not been given so 
as to stretch beyond that. If it could be at once 
decided — declared by Lord Rufford to the duke 
— that the match was to be a match, then the 
invitation should be renewed, Arabella should be 
advised to put off her other friends, and Lord 
Ruflbrd should be invited to come back early in 
the next month, and spend a week or two in the 
proper fashion with his future bride. All that 
had been settled between the duke and the duch- 
ess. So much should be done for the sake of 
the family. But the duke had not seen his 
way to asking Lord Rufford any question. 

The duchess must now find out the truth if 
she could, so that, if the story were false, she 
might get rid of the girj, and altogether shake 
her off from the Mistletoe roof-tree. Arabella's 
manner was certainly free from any appearance 
of hesitation or fear. 

" I don't know about being all right," said the 
duchess. "It can not be right that you should 
have come home with him alone in a hired car- 
riage. " 

"Is a hired carriage wickeder than a private 
one?" 

" If a carnage had been sent from here for 
you, it would have been different ; but even then 
he should not have come with you." 

" But he would, I'm sure; and I should have 
asked him. What — the man I am engaged to 
marry ! Mayn't he sit in a cai-riage with me ?" 

The duchess could not explain herself, and 
thought that she had better drop that topic. 
"What does he mean to do now, Arabella?" 

"What does who mean, aunt?" 

"LordRuflfbrd." 

" He means to marry me. And he means to 
go from here to Mr. Surbiton's to-morrow. I 
don't quite understand the question." 

"And what do you mean to do?" 

" I mean to marry him. And I mean to join 
mamma in London on Wednesday. I believe 
we are to go to the Connop Green's the next 
day. Mr. Connop Green is a sort of cousin of 
mamma; but they are odious people." 

"^Who is to see Lord Rntford? However, 
my dear, if you are very tired, I will leave you 
now." 

"No, aunt. Stay a moment, if you will be 
so very kind. I am tired ; but, if I were twice 
as tired, I would find strength to talk about this. 
If my uncle would speak to Lord Rufford at 
once, I should take it as the very kindest thing 
he could do. I could not send him to my uncle ; 
for, after all, one's uncle and one's father are 
not the same. I could only refer him to papa. 
But if the duke would speak to him !" 

" Did he renew his offer to-day ?" 

"He has done nothing else but renew it ever 
since he has been in the carriage with me. 
That's the plain truth. He made his offer at 
Rufford. He renewed it in the wood yesterday, 



and he repeated it, over and over again, as we 
came home to-day. It may have been very 
wrong, but so it was." Miss Trefoil must have 
thought that kissing and proposing were the 
same thing. Other young ladies have, perhaps, 
before now made sugh a mistake. But this 
young lady had had much experience, and should 
have known better. 

"Lord Rufford had better, perhaps, speak to 
your uncle." * 

" Will you tell him so, aunt ?" 

The duchess thought about it for a moment. 
She certainly could not tell Lord Rufford to 
speak to the duke without getting the duke's 
leave to tell him so. And, then, if all this were 
done, and Lord Rufford were to assure the duke 
that the young lady had made a mistake, how 
derogatory would all that be to the exalted qui- 
escence of the house of Mayfair ! She thorough- 
ly wished that her niece were out of the house ; 
fxjr, though she did believe the stoiy, her belief 
was not thorough. " I will speak to your un- 
cle," she said. "And now you had better go 
to sleep." 

"And, dear aunt, pray excuse me at dinner. 
I have been so excited, so flurried, and so fa- 
tigued, that I fear I should make a fool of my- 
self if I attempted to come down. I should get 
into a swoon, which would be dreadful. My 
maid shall bring me a bit of something and a 
glass of sherry, and you shall find me in the 
drawing-room when you come out." Then the 
duchess went, and Arabella was left alone, to 
take another view of the circumstances of the 
campaign. 

Though there were still infinite dangers, yet 
she could hardly wish that any thing should 
be altered. Should Lord Rufford disown her, 
which she knew to be quite possible, there would 
be a general collapse, and the world would crash 
over her head. But she had known, when she 
took this business in hand, that as success would 
open Elysium to her, so would failure involve her 
in absolute ruin. She was detei-mined that she 
would mar nothing now by cowardice ; and hav- 
ing so resolved, and having fortified herself with 
perhaps two glasses of sherry, she went down to 
the drawing-room a little before nine, and laid 
herself out upon a sofa till the ladies should 
come in. 

Lord Rufford had gone to bed, as was his 
wont on such occasions, with orders that he 
should be called to dress for dinner at half-past 
seven. But as he laid himself down he made up 
his mind that, instead of sleeping, he would give 
himself up to thinking about Arabella Trefoil. 
The matter was going beyond a joke, and would 
require some thinking. He liked her well enough, 
but was certainly not in love with her. I doubt 
whether men ever are in love with girls who 
throw themselves into their arms. A man's love, 
till it, has been chastened and listened by the 
feeling of duty which marriage brings with it, 
is instigated mainly by the difficulty of pursuit. 
"It is hardly possible that any thing so sweet as 
that should ever be mine ; and yet, because I am 
a man, and because it is so heavenly sweet, I 
will try." That is what men say to themselves ; 
but Lord Rufford had had no opportunity of say- 
ing that to himself in reg.ai'd to Miss Trefoil. 
The thing had been sweet, but not heavenly 
sweet ; and he had never for a moment doubted 



THE AMERICAN SENATOE. 



97 



the possibility. Now, at any rate, he would 
make up his mind. But, instead of doing so, he 
went to sleep ; and when he got up he was ten 
minutes late, and was forced, as he dressed him- 
self, to think of the duke's dinner instead of Ar- 
abella Trefoil. 

The duchess, before dinner, submitted herself, 
and all her troubles, at great length to the duke, 
but the duke could give her no substantial com- 
fort. Of course it had all been wrong. He sup- 
posed that they ought not to have been found 
walking together in the dark on Sunday after- 
noon. The hunting should not have been ar- 
ranged without sanction; and the return home 
in the hired carriage had, no doubt, been highly 
improper. But what could he do ? If the mar- 
riage came off, it would be all well. If not, this 
niece must not be invited to Mistletoe again. 
As to speaking to Lord RufFord, he did not quite 
see how he was to set about it. His own girls 
had been married in so very different a fashion ! 
He could imagine nothing so disagreeable as to 
have to ask a gentleman his intentions. Parental 
duty might make it necessary when a daughter 
had not known how to keep her own position in- 
tact ; but here there was no parental duty. If 
Lord Rufford would speak to him, then indeed 
there would be no difficulty. At last he told his 
wife that if she could find an opportunity of sug- 
gesting to the young lord that he might perhaps 
say a word to the young lady's uncle without im- 
propriety — if she could do this in a light, easy 
way, so as to run no peril of a scene — she might 
do so. 

When the two duchesses and all the other la- 
dies came out into the drawing-room, Arabella 
was found upon the sofa. Of course she became 
the centre of a little interest for a few minutes, 
and the more so as her aunt went up to her and 
made some inquiries. Had she had any dinner ? 
Was she less fatigued ? The fact of the improp- 
er return home in the post-chaise had become 
generally known, and there were some there who 
would have turned a very cold shoulder to Ara- 
bella had not her aunt noticed her. Perhaps 
there were some who had envied her Jack, and 
Lord Eufford's admiration, and even the post- 
chaise. But as long as her aunt countenanced 
her, it was not likely that any one at Mistletoe 
would be unkind to her. The Duchess of Omni- 
um did, indeed, remark to Lady Chiltern that she 
remembered something of the same kind happen- 
ing to the same girl soon after her own marriage. 
As the duchess had now been married a great 
many years, this was unkind ; but it was known 
that when the Duchess of Omnium did dislike 
any one, she never scrupled to show it. "Lord 
Rufford is about the silliest man of his day," she 
said afterward to the same lady; "but there is 
one thing which I do not think even he is silly 
enough to do." 

It was again nearly ten o'clock when the gen- 
tlemen came into the room, and then it was that 
the duchess — Arabella's aunt — must find the op- 
portunity of giving Lord Rufford the hint of 
which the duke had spoken. He was to leave 
Mistletoe on the morrow, and might not improb- 
ably do so early. Of all women she was the 
steadiest, the most tranquil, the least abrupt in 
her movements. She could not pounce upon a 
man and nail him down, and say what she had 
to say, let him be as unwilling as he might to 
7 



hear it. At last, however, seeing Lord Rufford 
standing alone — he had then just Itft the sofii on 
which Arabella was still lying — without any ap- 
parent effort she made her way up to his side. 
"You had rather a long day," she said. 

"Not particularly, duchess." 

" You had to come home so far !" 

"About the average distance. Did you think 
it a hard day, Maurice ?" Then he called to his 
aid a certain Lord Maurice St. John, a hard-rid- 
ing and hard -talking old friend of the Trefoil 
family, who gave the duchess a very clear ac- 
count of all the performance, during which Lord 
Rufford fell into an interesting conversation 
with Mrs. Mulready, the wife of the neighboring 
bishop. 

After that the duchess made another attempt. 
"Lord Rufford," she said, "we should be so 
glad if you would come back to us the first week 
in February. The Prices will be here, and the 
Mackenzies, and — " 

"I am pledged to stay with my sister till the 
5th, and on the 6th Surbiton and all his lot 
come to me. Battersby, is it not the Cth that 
you and Surbiton come to Rufford ?" 

" I rather think it is," said Battersby. 

" I wish it were possible. I like Mistletoe so 
much. It's so central." 

"Very well for hunting; is it not, Lord Ruf- 
ford?" But that horrid Captain Battersby did 
not go out of the way. 

"I wonder whether Lady Chiltern would do 
me a favor," said Lord RufFord, stepping across 
the room in search of that lady. He might be 
foolish ; but when the Duchess of Omnium de- 
clared him to be the silliest man of the day, I 
think she used a wrong epithet. The duchess 
was very patient, and intended to try again ; but 
on that evening she got no opportunity. 

Captain Battersby was Lord Rufford's partic- 
ular friend on this occasion, and had come over 
with him from Mr. Surbiton's house. "Bat," 
he said, as they were sitting close to each other in 
the smoking-room that night, " I mean to make 
an early start to-morrow." 

"What — to get to Surbiton's?" 

"I've got something to do on the way. I 
want to look at a horse at Stamford." 

"I'll be off with you." 

"No ; don't do that. I'll go in my own cart. 
I'll make my man get hold of my groom, and 
manage it somehow. I can leave my things, and 
j'ou can bring them. Only say to-morrow that 
I was obliged to go." 

"I understand." 

" Heard something, you know, and all that 
kind of thing. Make my apologies to the duch- 
ess. In point of fact, I must be in Stamford at 
ten." 

"I"ll manage it all," said Captain Battersby, 
who made a very shrewd guess at the cause which 
drew his friend to such an uncomfortable pro- 
ceeding. After that Lord Rufford went to his 
room, and gave a good deal of trouble that night 
to some of the servants in reference to the steps 
which would be necessary to take him out of 
harm's way before the duchess would be up on 
the morrow. 

Arabella, when she heard of the man's depart- 
ure on the following morning, which she luckily 
did from her own maid, was for some time over- 
whelmed by it. Of course the man was running 



98 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



away from lier : there could be no doubt of it. 
She had watffhed him narrowly on the previous 
evening, and had seen that her aunt had tried in 
vain to speak to him ; but she did not on that 
account give up the game. At any rate, they 
had not found her out at Mistletoe. That was 
something. Of course it would have been infi- 
nitely better for her could he have been absolute- 
ly caught and nailed down before he left the 
house; but that was perhaps more than she had 
a right to expect. She could still pursue him — 
still write to him ; and at last, if necessary, force 
her father to do so. But she must trust now 
chiefly to her own correspondence. 

"He told me, aunt, the last thing last night, 
that he Avas going, " she said. 

"Whj' did you not mention it?" 

"I thought he would have told you. I saw 
him speaking to you. He had received some tele- 
gram about a horse. He's the most flighty man 
in the world about such things. I am to write 
to him before I leave this to-morrow." 

Then the duchess did not believe a word of 
the engagement. She felt, at any rate, certain 
that, if there was an engagement, Lord Euffbrd 
did not mean to keep it. 



CHAPTER XLI. 

THE SENATOR IS BADLY TREATED. 

While these great efforts were being made 
by Arabella Trefoil at Mistletoe, John Morton 
was vacillating in an unhappy mood between 
London and Bragton. It may be remembered 
that an offer was made to him as to the pur- 
chase of Chowton Farm. At that time the Mis- 
tletoe party was broken up, and Miss Trefoil was 
staying with her mother at the Connop Green. 
By the morning post on the next day he received 
a note from the Senator, in which Mr. Gotobed 
stated that business required his presence at 
Dillsborough, and suggested that he should again 
become a guest at Bragton for a few days. Mor- 
ton was so sick of his own company, and so tired 
of thinking of his own affairs, that he was al- 
most glad to welcome the Senator. At any rate, 
he had no means of escaping, and the Senator 
came. The two men were alone at the house, 
and the Senator was full of his own wrongs, as 
well as those of Englishmen in general. Mr. 
Bearside had written to him very courteously, 
but pressing for an immediate remittance of 
twenty-five pounds, and explaining that the great 
case could not be carried on without that sum of 
money. This might have been very well as be- 
ing open to the idea that the Senator had the 
option of either paying the money or of allowing 
the great case to be abandoned, but that the at- 
torney, in the last paragraph of his letter, inti- 
mated that the Senator would be of course aware 
that he was liable for the whole cost of the ac- 
tion, be it what it might. He had asked a legal 
friend in London his opinion, and the legal friend 
had seemed to think that perhaps he was liable. 
What orders he had given to JBearside he had 
given without any witness, and at any rate had 
already paid a certain sum. The legal friend, 
when he heard all that Mr. Gotobed was able to 
tell him about Goarly, had advised the Senator 
to settle with Bearside, taking a due receipt, and 



having some person with him when he did so. 
The legal friend had thought that a small sum 
of money would suffice. 

" He went so far as to suggest," said the Sen- 
ator, with indignant energy, " that if I contest- 
ed my liability to the man's charges, the matter 
would go against me because I had interfered 
in such a case on the unpopular side. I should 
think that, in this great country, I should find 
justice administered on other terms than that." 

Morton attempted to explain to him that his 
legal friend had not been administering justice, 
but only giving advice. He had, so Morton told 
him, undoubtedly taken up the case of one black- 
guard, and, in urging it, had paid his money to 
another. He had done so as a foreigner, loudly 
proclaiming, as his reason for such action, that 
the man he supported would be unfairly treated 
unless he gave his assistance. Of course he could 
not expect sympathy. 

"I want no sympathy," said the Senator ; "I 
only want justice." 

Then the two gentlemen had become a little 
angry with each other. Morton was the last 
man in the world to have been aggressive on such 
a matter ; but with the Senator it was necessary 
either to be prostrate or to fight. 

But with Mr. Gotobed such fighting never pro- 
duced ill blood. It was the condition of his life, 
and it must be supposed that he liked it. On 
the next morning he did not scruple to ask his 
host's advice as to what he had better do, and 
they agreed to walk across to Goarly's house, 
and to ascertain from the man himself what he 
thought, or might have to say, about his own 
case. On their way they passed up the road 
leading to Chowton Earm, and at the gate lead- 
ing into the garden they found Larry Twenty- 
man standing. Morton shook hands with the 
young farmer, and introduced the Senator. Lar- 
ry was still woe-begone, though he endeavored to 
shake off" his sorrows and to appear to be gay. 
"I never see much of the man," he said when 
they told him that they were goipg across to call 
upon his neighbor, "and I don't know that I 
want to." 

' ' He doesn't seem to have much friendship 
among you all," said the Senator. 

"Quite as much as he deserves, Mr. Goto- 
bed," replied Larry. The Senator's name had 
lately become familiar as a household word in 
Dillsborough, and was, to tell the truth, odious 
to such men as Larry Twentyman. "He's a 
thundering rascal, and the only place fit for him 
in the county is Ruffbrd Jail. He's like to be 
there soon, I think." 

"That's what provokes me," said the Senator. 
" You think he's a rascal, Mister?" 

"I do." 

' ' And because you take upon yourself to think 
so, you'd send him to Rutford Jail ! There was 
one gentleman somewhere about here told me 
he ought to be hung ; and because I would not 
agree with him he got up and walked away from 
me at table, carrying his provisions with him. 
Another man in the next field to this insulted 
me because I said I was going to see Goarly. 
The clergyman in Dillsborough and the hotel- 
keepers were just as hard upon me. But you 
see, Mister, that what we want to find out is, 
whether Goarly or the lord has the right of it 
in this particular case." 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



99 



"I know which has the right, without any 
more finding out," said Larry. " The shortest 
way to his house is by the ride through the wood, 
Mr. Morton. It takes you out on his land on 
the other side. But I don't think you'll find him 
there. One of ray men told me that he had 
made himself scarce." Then he added, as the 
two were going on, "I should like to have just 
a word with you, Mr. Morton. I've been think- 
ing_ of what you said, and I know it was kind. 
I'll take a month over it. I won't talk of selling 
ChoAvton till the end of February ; but if I feel 
about it then as I do now, I can't stay. " 

"That's right, Mr, Twentyman — and work 
hard, like a man, through the month. Go out 
hunting, and don't allow yourself a moment for 
moping." 

"I will," said Larry, as he retreated to the 
house, and then he gave directions that his horse 
might be ready for the morrow. 

They went in through the wood, and the Sen- 
ator pointed out the spot at which Bean, the 
gamekeeper, had been so insolent to him. He 
could not understand, he said, why he should be 
treated so roughly, as these men must be aware 
that he had nothing to gain himself. " If I were 
to go into Mikewa," said Morton, "and inter- 
fere there with the peculiarities of the people as 
you have done here, it's my belief that they'd 
have had the eyes out of my head long before 
this. " 

"That only shows that you don't know Mik- 
ewa," said the Senator. "Its people are the 
most law-abiding population on the face of the 
earth." 

They passed through the wood, and a couple 
of fields brought them to Goarly's house. As 
they approached it by the back, the only live 
thing they saw was the old goose which had 
been so cruelly deprived of her companions and 
progeny. The goose was waddling round the 
dirty pool, and there were to be seen sundry ugly 
signs of a poor man's habitation ; but it was not 
till they had knocked at the window as well as 
the door that Mrs. Goarly showed herself. She 
remembered the Senator at once, and courtesied 
to him ; and when Morton introduced himself 
she courtesied again to the Squire of Bragton. 
When Goarly was asked for, she shook her head 
and declared that she knew nothing about him. 
He had been gone, she said, for the last week, 
and had left no word as to whither he was go- 
ing; nor had he told her why. "Has he given 
up his action against Lord RufFord?" asked the 
Senator. 

"Indeed, then, sir, I can't tell you a word 
ahout it." 

"I've been told that he has taken Lord Ruf- 
ford's money." 

" He ain't 'a taken no money as I've seed, sir. 
I wish he had, for money's sore wanted here ; 
and if the gen'leman has a mind to be kind-heart- 
ed — " Then she intimated her own readiness to 
take any contribution to the good cause which 
the Senator might be willing to make at that 
moment. But the Senator buttoned up his 
breeches -pockets with stern resolution. Though 
lie still believed Lord RufFord to be altogether 
wrong, he was beginning to think that the Goar- 
ly s were not worthy his benevolence. As she 
came to the door with them and accompanied 
them a few yards across tlie field, she again told 



the tragic tale of her goose ; but the Senator had 
not another word to say to her. • 

On that same day Morton drove Mr. Gotobed 
into Dillsborough, and consented to go with him 
to Mr. Bearside's oSice. They found the attor- 
ney at home, and before any thing was said as 
to payment they heard his account of the action. 
If Goarly had consented to take any money from 
Lord Rufi'ord, he knew nothing about it. As 
far as he was aware, the action was going on. 
Ever so many witnesses must be brought from a 
distance who had seen the crop standing, and 
who would have no bias against the owner — as 
would be the case with neighbors such as Law- 
rence Twentyman. Of course it was not easy 
to oppose such a man as Lord RufFord, and a lit- 
tle money must be spent. Indeed, such, he said, 
was his interest in the case that he had already 
gone farther than he ought to have done out of 
his own pocket. Of course they would be suc- 
cessful — that is, if the matter were carried on 
with spirit — and then the money would all come 
back again. But just at present a little money 
must be spent. 

" I don't mean to spend it," said the Senator. 

"I hope you won't stick to that, Mr. Goto- 
bed." 

"But I shall, sir. I understand from your 
letter that you look to me for funds." 

"Certainly I do, Mr. Gotobed; because you 
told me to do so." 

"I told you nothing of the kind, Mr. Beai-- 
side." 

" You paid me fifteen pounds on account, Mr. 
Gotobed." 

"I paid you fifteen pounds, certainly." 

"And told me that more should be coming 
as it was wanted. Do you think I should have 
gone on for such a man as Goarly — a fellow 
without a shilling — unless he had some one like 
you to back him ? It isn't likely. Now, Mr. 
Morton, I appeal to you." 

"I don't suppose that ray friend has made 
himself liable for your bill because he paid you 
fifteen pounds with the view of assisting Goarly," 
said Morton. 

"But he said that he meant to go on, Mr. 
Morton ; he said that plain, and I can swear it. 
Now, Mr. Gotobed, you just say out, like an hon- 
est man, whether you didn't give me to under- 
stand that you meant to go on." 

"I never emploj'ed you, or raade myself re- 
sponsible for your bill." 

"You aitthorized me, distinctly — most dis- 
tinctly, and I shall stick to it. When a gentle- 
man comes to a lawyer's office and pays his mon- 
ey, and tells that lawyer as how he means to see 
the case out — explaining his reasons, as you did, 
when you said all that against the landlords and 
squires and nobility of this here country — why, 
then, that lawyer has a right to think that that 
gentleman is his mai'k." 

' ' I thought you were employed by Mr. Scrob- 
b}'," said Morton, who had heard much of the 
story by this time. 

"Then, Mr. Morton, I must make bold to 
say that you have heard wrong. I know noth- 
ing of Mr. Scrobby, and don't want. There 
ain't nothing about the poisoning of that fox 
in this case of ours. Scrobby and Goarly may 
have done that, or Scrobby and Goarly may be 
as innocent as two babes unborn, for aught I 



100 



THE AMEEICAN SENATOE. 



know or care. Excuse me, Mr. Morton, but I 
have to be ou my p's and q's, I see. This is a 
case for trespass and damage against Lord Kuf- 
ford, in which we ask for forty shillings an acre. 
Of course there is expenses. There's my own 
time. I ain't to be kept here talking to you two 
gentlemen for nothing, I suppose. Well, this 
gentleman comes to me and pays me fifteen 
pounds to go on. I couldn't have gone on with- 
out something. The gentleman saw that plain 
enough. And he told me he'd see me through 
the rest of it." 

"I said nothing of the kind, sir." 

"Very well. Then we must put it to a jury. 
May I make bold to ask whether you are going 
out of the country all at once ?" 

"I shall be here for the next two months, at 
least." 

"Happy to hear it, sir, and have no doubt it 
will all be settled before that time, amiable or 
otherwise. But as I am money out of pocket, I 
did hope you would have paid me something on 
account to-day." 

Then Mr. Gotobed made his offer, informing 
Mr. Bearside that he had brought his friend Mr. 
Morton with him in order that there might be a 
witness. 

"I could see that, sir, with half an eye," said 
the attorney, unabashed. 

He was willing to pay Mr. Bearside a further 
sum of ten pounds immediately, to be quit of 
the affair, not because he thought that any such 
sum was due, but because he wished to free him- 
self from further trouble in the matter. Mr. 
Bearside hinted in a very cavalier way that 
twenty pounds might be thought of. A further 
payment of twenty pounds would cover the mon- 
ey he was out of pocket. But this proposition 
Mr. Gotobed indignantly refused, and then left 
the office with his friend. 

"Wherever there are lawyers, there will be 
rogues," said the Senator, as soon as he found 
himself in the street. " It is a noble profession, 
that of the law — the finest, perhaps, that the work 
of the world affords ; but it gives scope and 
temptation for roguery. I do not think, how- 
ever, that 3'ou would find any thing in America 
so bad as thaf." 

"Why did you go to him without asking any 
questions ?" 

"Of whom was I to ask questions ? When I 
took up Goarly's case, he had already put it into 
this man's hands." 

"I am sorry you should be troubled, Mr. Go- 
tobed ; but, upon my word, I can not say but 
that it serves you right." 

" That is because you are offended with me. 
I endeavored to protect a poor man against a 
rich man, and that in this country is cause of of- 
fense." 

After leaving the attorney's office, they called 
on Mr. Mainwaring, the rector, and found that 
he knew, or professed to know, a great deal 
more about Goarly than they had learned from 
Bearside. According to his story, Nickem, who 
was clerk to Mr. Masters, had Goarly in safe 
keeping somewhere. The rector, indeed, was ac- 
quainted with all the details. Scrobby had pur- 
chased the red herrings and strychnine, and had 
employed Goarly to walk over by night to Kuf- 
ford and fetch them. The poison at that time 
had been duly packed in the herrings. Goarly 



had done this, and had, at Scrobby's instigation, 
laid the bait down in Dillsborough Wood. Nick- 
em was now at work tiying to learn where Sci'ob- 
by had purchased the poison, as it was feared 
that Goarly's evidence alone would not suffice to 
convict the man. But if the stiychnine could 
be traced and the herrings, then there would be 
almost a certainty of punishing Scrobby. 

"And what about Goarly?" asked the Sen- 
ator. , 

"He would escape, of course," said the rector. 
"He would get a little money, and, after such an 
experience, would probably become a good friend 
to fox-hunting." 

"And quite a respectable man !" The rector 
did not guarantee this, but seemed to think that 
there would, at any rate, be promise of improved 
conduct. "The place ought to be too hot to 
hold him!" exclaimed the Senator, indignantly. 
The rector seemed to think it possible that he 
might find it uncomfortable at first, in which 
case he would sell the land at a good price to 
Lord Rufford, and every one concerned would 
have been benefited by the transaction — except 
Scrobby, for whom no one would feel any pity. 

The two gentlemen then promised to come 
and dine with the rector on the following day. 
He feared, he said, that he could not make up 
a party, as there was — he declared — nobody in 
Dillsborough. 

"I never knew such a place," said the rector. 
"Except old Nupper, who is there? Masters is 
a veiy decent fellow himself, but he has got out 
of that kind of thing ; and you can't ask a man 
without asking his wife. As for clergymen, I'm 
sick of dining with my own cloth, and discussing 
the troubles of sermons. There never was such 
a place as Dillsborough." Then he whispered a 
word to the squire. Was the sqttire unwilling to 
meet his cousin, Reginald Morton ? Things were 
said, and people never knew what was true and 
what was false. Then John Morton declared 
that he would be very happy to meet his cousin. 



CHAPTER XLII. 

MR. MAINWAKING'S LITTLE DINNEE. 

The company at the rector's house consisted 
of the Senator, the two Mortons, Mr. Surtees 
the curate, and old Dr. Nupper. Mrs. Main- 
waring was not well enough to appear, and the 
rector, therefore, was able to indulge himself in 
what he called a bachelor party. As a rule, he 
disliked clergymen; but at the last had been 
driven to invite his curate, because he thought 
six a better number than five, for joviality. He 
began by asking questions as to the Trefoils, 
which were not very fortunate. Of course he 
had heard that Morton was to marry Arabella 
Trefoil ; and though he made no direct allusion 
to the fact, as Reginald had done, he spoke in 
that bland, eulogistic tone which clearly showed 
his purpose. "They went with you to Lord 
Rufford 's, I was told. " 

"Yes; they did." 

"And now they have left the neighborhood. 
A very clever young lady. Miss Trefoil ; and so 
is her mother a very clever woman." The Sen- 
ator, to whom a sort of appeal was made, nod- 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



101 



ded his assent. "Lord Augustus, I believe, is 
a brother of the Duke of Mayfair." 

"Yes, he is," said Morton. "I'm afraid we 
are going to liave frost again." Then Reginald 
Morton was sui-e that the mamage would never 
take place. 

"The Trefoils are a very distinguished fami- 
ly," continued the rector. "I remember the 
present duke's father when he was in the Cabi- 
net, and knew this man almost intimately when 
we were at Christchurch together. I don't think 
this duke ever took a prominent part in politics." 

"I don't know that he ever did," said Mor- 
ton. 

"Dear, dear, how tipsy he was once, driving 
back to Oxford with me in a gig. But he has 
the reputation of being one of the best landlords 
in the country now." 

"I wonder what it is that gives a man the rep- 
utation of being a good landlord. Is it foxes ?" 
asked the Senator. The rector acknowledged 
with a smile that foxes helped. " Or does it 
mean that he lets his land below the value. If 
so, he certainly does more harm than good, 
though he may like the popularity which he is 
rich enough to buy." 

"It means that he does not exact more than 
his due," said the rector, indiscreetly. 

"When I hear a man so highly praised for 
common honesty, I am of course led to suppose 
that dishonesty in his particular trade is the 
common rule. The body of English landlords 
must be exorbitant tyrants, M'hen one among 
them is so highly eulogized for taking no more 
than his own." Luckily at that moment dinner 
was announced, and the exceptional character of 
the Duke of Mayfair was allowed to drop. 

Mr. Mainwaring's dinner was very good, and 
his wines were excellent — a fact of which Mr. 
Mainwaring himself was much better aware than 
any of his guests. There is a difficulty in the 
giving of dinners of which Mr. Mainwaring and 
some other hosts have become painfully aware. 
AVhat service do you do to any one in pouring 
your best claret down his throat, when he knows 
no difference between that and a much more 
humble vintage — your best claret, which you feel 
so sure you can not replace ? Why import can- 
vas-back ducks for appetites which would be 
quite as well satisfied with those out of the next 
farm-yard? Your soup, which has been a care 
since yesterday; your fish, got down with so 
great trouble from Bond Street on that very day ; 
your saddle of mutton, in selecting which you 
have affronted every butcher in the neighbor- 
hood, are all plainly thrown away ! And yet the 
hospitable hero, who would fain treat his friends 
as he would be treated himself, can hardly ar- 
range his dinners according to the palates of his 
different guests ; nor will he like, when strangers 
sit at his board, to put nothing better on his 
table than that cheaper wine with which need- 
ful economy induces him to solace himself when 
alone. I — I who write this — have myself seen 
an honored guest deluge with the pump my, ah! 
so hardly earned, most scarce, and most peculiar 
vintage ! There is a pang in such usage which 
some will not understand, but which cut Mr. 
Mainwaring to the very soul. Tliere was not 
one among them there who appreciated the fact 
that the claret on his dinner -table was almost 
the best that its year had produced. It was im- 



possible not to say a word on such a subject at 
such a moment ; though our rector was not a 
man who usually lauded his own viands, "I 
think you'll find that claret what you like, Mr. 
Gotobed," he said. "It's a '57 Mouton, and 
judges say that it is good." 

" Very good indeed," said the Senator. " In 
the States we haven't got into the way yet of 
using dinner clarets." It was as good as a play 
to see the rector wince under the ignominious 
word. "Your great statesman added much to 
your national comfort when he took the duty off 
the lighter kinds of French wines." 

The .rector could not stand it. He hated light 
wines. He hated cheap things in general. And 
he hated Gladstone in particular. "Nothing," 
said he, " that the statesman you speak of ever 
did could make such wine as that any cheaper. 
I am sorry, sir, that you don't perceive the dif- 
ference. " 

"In the matter of wine," said the Senator, 
"I don't think that I have happened to come 
across any thing so good in this country as our 
old Madeiras. But then, sir, we have been fort- 
unate in our climate. The English atmosphere 
is not one in which wine seems to reach its full 
perfection." 

The rector heaved a deep sigh as he looted 
up to the ceiling with his hands in his trousers- 
pockets. He knew, or thought that he knew, 
that no one could ever get a glass of good wine 
in the United States, He knew, or thought 
that he knew, that the best wine in the world 
was brought to England. He knew, or thought 
he knew, that in no other country was wine so 
well understood, so diligently sought for, and so 
truly enjoyed as in England. And he imagined 
that it was less understood, and less sought for, 
and less enjoyed in the States than in any other 
country. He did not as yet know the Senator 
well enough to fight with him at his own table, 
and could, only groan and moan and look up 
at the ceiling. Dr. Nupper endeavored to take 
away the sting by smacking his lips, and Regi- 
nald Morton, who did not, in truth, care a straw 
what he drank, was moved to pity, and declared 
the claret to be very fine. 

"I have nothing to say against it," said the 
Senator, who was not in the least abashed. 

But when the cloth was drawn — for the rector 
clung so lovingly to old habits that he delighted 
to see his mahogany beneath the wine-glasses — 
a more serious subject of dispute arose suddenly, 
though perhaps hardly more disagreeable. 

"The thing in England," said the Senator, 
" which I find most difficult to understand, is the 
matter of what you call Church patronage." 

"Jf you'll pass half an hour with Mr. Surtees 
to-morrow morning, he'll explain it all to you," 
said the rector, who did not like that any sub- 
ject connected with his profession should be 
mooted after dinner. 

"I should be delighted," said Mr. Surtees. 

" Nothing would give me more pleasure," said 
the Senator; "but what I mean is this: the 
question is, of course, one of paramount impor- 
tance." 

" No doubt it is," said the deluded rector. 

" It is veiy necessary to get good doctors." 

"Well, yes, rather — considering that all men 
wish to live'. " That observation, of course, came 
from Dr. Nupper. 



102 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



"And care is taken in employing a lawyer — 
though, after my experience of yesterday, not 
always, I should say, so much care as is needful. 
The man who wants such aid looks about him, 
and gets the best doctor he can for his money, 
or the best lawyer. But here in England he 
must take the clergyman provided for him." 

" It would be very much better for him if he 
did," said the rectoi*. 

"A clergyman, at any rate, is supposed to be 
appointed, and that clergyman he must pay." 

"Not at all," said the rector. "The clergy 
are paid by the wise pi'O vision of former ages." 

"We will let that pass for the present," said 
the Senator. "There he is, however he may 
be paid. How does he get there ?" Now it was 
the fact that Mr. Mainwaring's living had been 
bought for him with his wife's money — a fact of 
which Mr. Gotobed was not aware, but which he 
would hardly have regarded, had he known it. 
' ' How does he get there ?" 

" In the majority of cases the bishop puts him 
there," said Mr. Surtees. 

"And how is the bishop governed in his 
choice ? As far as I can learn, the stipends are 
absurdly various ; one man getting one hundred 
pounds a year for working like a horse in a big 
town, and another one thousand pounds for liv- 
ing an idle life in a luxurious countiy house. 
But the bishop, of course, gives the bigger plums 
to the best men. How is it, then, that the big 
plums find their way so often to the sons and 
sons-in-law and nephews of the bishops ?" 

"Because the bishop has looked after their 
education and principles," said the rector. 

"And taught them how to choose their wives," 
said the Senator, with imperturbable gravity, 

"I am not the son of a bishop, sir," exclaimed 
the rector. 

"I wish you had been, sir, if it would have 
done you any good. A general can't make his 
son a colonel at the age of twenty-five, or an ad- 
miral his son a first lieutenant, or a judge his a 
queen's councilor — nor can the head of an office 
promote his to be a chief secretary. It is only a 
bishop can do this — I suppose because a cure of 
souls is so much less important than the charge 
of a ship, or the discipline of twenty or thirty 
clerks." 

" The bishops don't do it," said the rector, 
fiercely. 

" Then the statistics which have been put into 
my hands belie them. But how is it with those 
the bishops don't appoint? There seems to me 
to be such a complication of absurdities as to 
defy explanation. " 

"I think I could explain them all," said Mr. 
Surtees, mildly. 

" If you can do so satisfactorily, I shall be 
very glad to hear it," continued the Senator, who 
seemed, in truth, to be glad to hear no one but 
himself. "A lad of one-and-twenty learns his 
lessons so well that he has to be rewarded at his 
college, and a part of his reward consists in his 
having a parish intrusted to him when he is for- 
ty 3'ears old to which he can maintain his right 
whether he be in any way trained for such work 
or no. Is that true ?" 

"His collegiate education is the best training 
he can have," said the rector. 

"I came across a young fellow the other day," 
continued the Senator, "in a very nice house. 



with seven hundred pounds a year, and learned 
that he had inherited the living because he was 
his father's second son. Some poor clergyman 
had been keeping it ready for him for the last 
fifteen years, and had to turn out as soon as this 
young spark could be made a clergyman." 

"It was his father's property," said the rec- 
tor, "and the poor man had had great kindness 
shown him for those fifteen years." 

' ' Exactly ; his father's property ! And this 
was what yon call a cure of souls ! And anoth- 
er man had absolutely had his living bought for 
him by his uncle, just as he might have bought 
him a farm. He couldn't have bought him the 
command of a regiment or a small judgeship. 
In those matters you require capacity. It is 
only when you deal with the Church that you 
throw to the winds all ideas of fitness. ' Sir,' or 
'Madam,' or perhaps, 'my little dear, you are 
bound to come to your places in church and hear 
me expound the word of God because I have 
paid a heavy sum of money for the privilege of 
teaching you, at the moderate salary of six hun- 
dred pounds a year !' " 

Mr. Surtees sat aghast with his mouth open, 
and knew not how to say a word. Dr. Nupper 
rubbed his re^ nose. Reginald Morton attempt- 
ed some suggestion about the wine which fell 
wretchedly flat. John Morton ventured to tell 
his friend that he did not understand the subject. 

"I shall be most happy to be instructed," said 
the Senator. 

"Understand it!" said the rector, almost ris- 
ing in his chair to rebuke the insolence of his 
guest — "he understands nothing about it; and 
yet he ventures to fall foul, with unmeasured 
terms, on an establishment which has been 
brought to its present condition by the fostei-ing 
care of perhaps the most pious set of divines that 
ever lived, and which has produced results with 
which those of no other Church can compare!" 

"Have I represented any thing untruly?" 
asked the Senator. 

"A great deal, sir." 

" Only put me right, and no man will recall 
his words more readily. Is it not the case that 
livings in the Church of England can be bought 
and sold?" 

"The matter is one, sir," said the rector, 
"which can not be discussed in this manner. 
There are two clergymen present to whom such 
language is distasteful ; as it is also, I hope, to 
the others, who are all members of the Church of 
England. Perhaps you will allow me to request 
that the subject may be changed." After that, 
conversation flagged and the evening was by no 
means joyous. The rector certainly regretted 
that his " '57 " claret should have been expended 
on such a man. "I don't think," said he, when 
John Morton had taken the Senator away, 
" that, in my whole life before, I ever met such 
a brute as that American Senator." 



CHAPTER XLIII. 



PERSECUTION. 



Thkkk was great consternation in the attor- 
ney's house after the writing of the letter to Law- 
rence Twentyman. For twenty-four houi-s Mrs. 
Masters did not speak to Mary, not at all intend- 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



103 



ing to let her sin pass with such moderate pun- 
ishment as that, but thinking, during that period, 
that as she might perhaps induce Larry to ignore 
the letter, and look upon it as though it were not 
written, it would be best to say nothing till the 
time should come in which the lover might again 
urge his suit. But when she found, on the even- 
ing of the second day, that Larry did not come 
near the place, slie could control herself no long- 
er, and accused her step-daughter of ruining her- 
self, her father, and the whole family. 

" That is very unfiiir, mamma," Mary said. 
"I have done nothing. I have only not done 
that which nobody had a right to ask me to do." 

"Right, indeed! And who are you, with 
your rights ? A decent, well - behaved young 
man, with five or six hundred a year, has no 
right to ask you to be his wife ! All this comes 
of your staying with an old woman with a han- 
dle to her name." 

It was in vain that Mary endeavored to ex- 
plain that she had not alluded to Larry when 
she declared that no one had a right to ask her 
to do it. She had, she said, always thanked him 
for his good opinion of her, and had spoken well 
of him whenever his name was mentioned. But 
it was a matter on which a young woman was 
entitled to judge for herself, and no one had a 
right to scold her because she could not love 
him. Mrs. Masters hated such arguments, de- 
spised this rodomontade about love, and would 
have crushed the girl into obedience, could it 
have been possible. "You are an idiot," she 
said, "an ungrateful idiot ; and, unless you think 
better of it, you'll repent your folly to your dy- 
ing day. Who do you think is to come running 
after a moping slut like you?"' Then Mary 
gathered herself up and left the room, feeling 
that she could not live in the house if she were 
to be called a slut. 

Soon after this Larry came to the attorney, 
and got him to come out into the street, and to 
walk with him round the church-yard. It was 
the spot in Dillsborough in which they ■\s;ould 
most certainly be left undisturbed. This took 
place on the day before his proposition for the 
sale of Chowton Farm. When he got the attor- 
ney into the church -yard, he took out Mary's 
letter, and in speechless agony handed it to the 
attorney. "I saw it before it went," said Mas- 
ters, putting it back with his hand. 

" I suppose she means it?" asked Larry. 

" I can't say to you but what she does, Twen- 
tyman. As far as I know her, she isn't a girl 
that would ever say any thing that she didn't 
mean." 

"I was sure of that. When I got it and 
read it, it was just as though some one had 
come behind me and hit me over the head with 
a wheel-spoke. I couldn't have eaten a morsel 
of breakfast, if I knew I wasn't to see another 
bit of food for four-and-twenty hours." 

"I knew you would feel it, Larry." 

"Feel it! Till it came to this, I didn't 
think of myself but what I had more strength. 
It has knocked me about, till I feel all over like 
drinking." 

"Don't do that, Larry." 

" I won't answer for myself what I'll do. A 
man sets his heart on a thing — just on one thing 
— and has gi-it enough in him to be sure of him- 
self that if he can get that, nothing shall knock 



him over. When that thorough-bred mare of 
mine slipped her foal, who can say I ever whim- 
pered. When I got pleuro among the cattle, I 
killed a'most the lot of 'em out of hand, and 
never laid awake a night about it. But I've got 
it so heavy this time I can't stand it. You don't 
think I have any chance, Mr. Masters ?" 

" You can try, of course. You're welcome to 
the house." 

"But what do vou think? You must know 
her." 

"Girls do change their minds." 

"But she isn't like other girls; is she, now? 
I come to you because I sometimes think Mrs. 
Masters is a little hard on her. Mrs. Masters is 
about the best friend I have. There isn't any 
body more on my side than she is. But I feel 
sure of this — Mary will never be drove." 

"I d6n't think she will, Larry." 

"She's got a will of her own, as well as an- 
other." 

"No man alive ever had a better daughter." 

" I'm sure of that, Mr. Masters ; and no man 
alive '11 ever have a better wife. But she won't 
be drove. I might ask her again, you think ?" 

" You certainly have my leave." 

"But would it be any good? I'd rather cut 
my throat and have done with it, than go about 
teasing her because her parents let me come to 
her." Then there was a pause, during which 
they walked on, the attorney feeling that he had 
nothing more to say. " What I want to know," 
said Larry, "is this — is there any body else?" 

That was just the point on wiiich the attorney 
himself was perplexed. He had asked Mary 
that question, and her silence had assured him 
that it was so. Then he had suggested to her 
the name of the only probable suitor that occur- 
red to him, and she had repelled the idea in a 
manner that had convinced him at once. There 
was some one, but Mr. Surtees was not the man. 
There was some one, he was sure, but he had 
not been able to cross-examine her on the sub- 
ject. He had, since that, cudgeled his brain to 
think who that some one might be, but had not 
succeeded in suggesting a name even to himself. 
That of Reginald Morton, who hardly ever came 
to the house, and whom he regarded as a silent, 
severe, unapproachable man, did not come into 
his mind. Among the young ladies of Dills- 
borough Reginald Morton was never regarded 
as even a possible lover. And yet there was as- 
suredly some one. "If there is any one else, I 
think you ought to tell me," continued Larry. 

"It is quite possible." 

"Young Surtees, I suppose." 

" I do not say there is any body ; but, if there 
be any body, I do not think it is Surtees." 

"Who else, then?" 

" I can not sav, Larry. I know nothing about 
it." 

"But there is some one?" 

"I do not say so. You ask rpe, and I tell' 
you all I know." 

Again they walked round the church-yard in 
silence, and the attoraey began to be anxious 
that the interview might be over. He hardly 
liked to be interrogated about the state of his 
daughter's heart, and yet he had felt himself 
bound to tell what he knew to the man who had 
in all respects behaved well to him. When they 
had returned for the third or fourth time to the 



104 



THE AMEKICAN SENATOR 



gate by which they had entered, Larry spoke 
again. " I suppose I may as well give it up." 

"What can I say?" 

"You have been fair enough, Mr. Masters. 
And so has she. And so has every body. I 
shall just get away as quick as I can, and go 
and hang myself. I feel above bothering her 
any more. When she sat down to write a letter 
like that, she must have been in earnest." 

" She certainly was in earnest, Larry." 

"What's the use of going on after that? 
Only it is so hard for a fellow to feel that every 
thing is gone. It is just as though the house 
was burned down, and I was to wake in the 
morning and find that the land didn't belong to 
me." 

"Not so bad as that, Larry." 

"Not so bad, Mr. Masters! Then you don't 
know what it is I'm feeling. I'd let his lordship 
or Squire Morton have it all, and go in upon it 
as a tenant at thirty shillings an acre, so that I 
could take her along with me. I would — and 
sell the horses, and set to and work in my shirt- 
sleeves. A man could stand that. Nobody 
wouldn't laugh at me then. But there's an 
emptiness now here that makes me sick all 
through, as though I hadn't got stomach left for 
any thing." Then poor Larry put his hand 
upon his heart and hid his face upon the church- 
yard wall. The attorney made some attempt to 
say a kind woi'd to him, and then, leaving him 
there, slowly made his way back to his office. 

We already know what first step Larry took 
with the intention of running away from his cares. 
In the house at Dillsborough things were almost 
as bad as they were with him. Over and over 
again Mrs. Masters told her husband that it was 
all his fault, and that if he had torn the letter 
when it was shown to him, every thing would 
have been right by the end of the two months. 
This he bore with what equanimity he could, 
shutting himself up very much in his office, occa- 
sionally escaping, for a quarter of an hour of 
ease, to his friends at The Bush, and eating his 
meals in silence. But when he became aware 
that his girl was being treated with cruelty, that 
she was never spoken to by her step-mother with- 
out harsh words, and that her sisters were en- 
couraged to be disdainful to her, tlien his heart 
rose within him, and he rebelled. He declared 
aloud that Mary should not be persecuted, and 
that if this kind of thing were continued, he 
would defend his girl, let the consequences be 
what they might. " What are you going to de- 
fend her against ?" asked his wife. 

" I won't have her ill-used because she refuses 
to marry. at your bidding." 

"Bah ! You know as much how to manage 
a girl as though you were an old maid yourself. 
Cocker her up, and make her think that nothing 
is good enough for her ! Break her spirit, and 
make her come round, and teach her to know 
what it is to have an honest man's house offered 
to her ! If she don't take Larry Twentyman's, 
she's like to have none of her own before long." 
But Mr, Masters would not assent to this plan 
of breaking his girl's spirit, and so there was 
continual war in the place, and every one there 
was unhappy. 

Mary herself was so unhappy that she con- 
vinced herself that it was necessary that some 
change should be made. Then she remembered 



Lady Ushant's offer of a home; and not only 
the offer, but the old lady's assurance that to 
herself such an arrangement, if possible, Avonld • 
be very comfortable. She did not suggest to her- 
self that she would leave her father's home for- 
ever and always ; but it might be that an ab- 
sence of some months might relieve the absolute 
misery of their present mode of living. The ef- 
fect on her father was so sad that she was almost 
driven to regret that he should have taken her 
own part. Her step-mother was not a bad wom- 
an ; nor did Mary even now think her to be bad. 
She was a hard-working, painstaking wife, with 
a good general idea of justice. In the division 
of puddings and pies, and other material com- 
forts of the household, she would deal evenly be- 
tween her own children and her step-daughter. 
She had not desired to send Mary away to an 
inadequate home, or with a worthless husband. 
But when the proper home and the proper man 
were there, she was prepared to use any amount 
of hardship to secure these good things to the 
family generally. This hardship Mary could 
not endure, nor could Mary's father on her be- 
half; and therefore Mary prepared a letter to 
Lady Ushant, in which, at great length, she told 
her old friend the whole story. She spoke as 
tenderly as was possible of all concerned, but de- 
clared that her step-mother's feelings on the sub- 
ject were so strong that every one in the house 
was made wretched. Under these circumstances 
— for her father's sake, if only for that — she 
thought herself bound to leave the house. " It 
is quite impossible," she said, "that I should do 
as they wish me. That is a matter on which a 
young woman must judge for herself. If you 
could have me for a few months, it would per- 
haps all pass by. I should not dare to ask this, 
but for what j'ou said yourself ; and, dear Lady 
Ushant, pray remember that I do not want to be 
idle. "There are a great many things I can do ; 
and though I know that nothing can pay for 
kindness, I might perhaps be able not to be 
a burden." Then she added in a postscript — 
" Papa is every thing that is kind ; but then all 
this makes him so miserable!" 

When she had kept the letter by her for a day, 
she showed it to her father, and by his consent 
it was sent. After much consultation, it was 
agreed bet\veen them that nothing should be said 
about it to Mrs. Masters till the answer should 
come ; and that, should the answer be favorable, 
the plan should be carried out in spite of any 
domestic opposition. In this letter Mary told as 
accurately as she could the whole story of Larry's 
courtship, and was very clear in declaring that 
under no possible circumstances could she en- 
courage any hope. But of course she said not a 
word as to any other man, or as to any love, on 
her side. "Have you told her every thing?" 
said her father, as he closed the letter. 

"Yes, papa; every thing that there is to be 
told." Then there arose within his own bosom 
an immense desire to know that secret, so that, 
if possible, he might do something to relieve her 
pain ; but he could not bring himself to ask fur- 
ther questions. 

Lady Ushant, on receiving the letter, much 
doubted what she ought to do. She acknowl- 
edged at once Maiy's right to appeal to her, and 
assured herself that the girl's presence would be 
a comfort and a happiness to herself. If Mary 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



105 



were quite alone in the world, Lady Ushant 
would have been at once prepared to give her a 
home. But she doubted as to the propriety of 
taking the girl from her own family. She doubt- 
ed even whether it would not be better that Mary 
should be left within the influence of Larry Twen- 
tyman's charms. A settlement, an income, and 
mutual comforts for life are very serious things 
to all people who have reached Lady Ushant's 
age. And then she had a doubt within her own 
mind whether Mary might not be debarred from 
accepting this young man by some unfortunate 
preference for Reginald Morton. She had seen 
them together, and had suspected something of 
the truth before it had gUmmered before the eyes 
of any one in Dillsborough. Had Reginald been 
so inclined, Lady Morton would have been very 
glad to see him marry Mary Masters. For both 
their sakes, she would have preferred such a 
match to one with the owner of Chowton Farm. 
But she did not think that Reginald himself was 
that way minded, and she fancied that poor Mary 
might be throwing away her prosperity in life 
were she to wait for Reginald's love. Larry 
Twentyman was, at any rate, sure ; and perhaps 
it might be unwise to separate the girl from her 
lover. 

In her doubt she determined to refer the case 
to Reginald himself, and, instead of writing to 
Mary, she wrote to him. She did not send him 
Mary's letter, which would, she felt, have been a 
breach of faith ; nor did she mention the name 
of Larry Twentyman. But she told him that 
Mary had proposed to come to Cheltenham for 
a long visit because there were disturbances at 
home — which disturbances had arisen from her 
rejection of a certain suitor. Lady Ushant said 
a great deal as to the inexpediency of fostering 
family quarrels, and suggested that Mary might, 
perhaps, have been a little impetuous. The 
presence of this lover could hardly do her much 
injury. These were not days in which young 
women were forced to marry men. What did 
he, Reginald Morton, think about it ? He was 
to remember that, as far as she herself was con- 
cerned, she dearly loved Mary Masters, and 
would be delighted to have her at Cheltenham ; 
and, so remembering, he was to see the attorney 
and Maiy herself, and, if necessary, Mrs. Mas- 
ters, and then to report his opinion to Chelten- 
ham. 

Then, fearing that her nephew might be away 
for a day or two, or that he might not be able to 
perform his commission instantly, and thinking 
that Mary might be unhappy if she received no 
immediate reply to such a request as hers had 
been. Lady Ushant by the same post wrote to 
her young friend as follows : 

"Dear Mart, — Reginald will go over and 
see your father about your proposition. As far 
as I ipyself am concerned, nothing would give me 
so much pleasure. This is quite sincere. But the 
matter is in other respects very important. Of 
course I have kept your letter all to myself, and 
in writing to Reginald I have mentioned no 
names. Your affectionate friend, 

"Margarkt Ushant," 



CHAPTER XLIV. 

"particularly proud of tou." 

Arabella Trefoil left her uncle's mansion 
on the day after her lover's departure, certainly 
not in triumph, but with somewhat recovered 
spirits. When she first heard that Lord RuiFord 
was gone — that he had fled away, as it were, in 
the middle of the night, without saying a word 
to her, without a syllable to make good the slight 
assurances of his love that had been given to her 
in the post-carriage, she felt that she was deserted 
and betraj'ed. And when she found herself alto- 
gether neglected on the following day, and that 
the slightly valuable impression which she had 
made on her aunt was apparently gone, she did 
for half an hour think in earnest of the Paragon 
and Patagonia. But after a while she called to 
mind all that she knew of great efforts success- 
fully made in opposition to almost overwhelming 
difiiculties. She had heard of forlorn-hopes, and 
perhaps in her young days had read something 
of Cffisar still clinging to his ' ' Commentaries " as 
he struggled in the waves. This was her forlorn- 
hope, and she would be as brave as any soldier 
of them all. Lord Ruffbrd's embraces were her 
"Commentaries," and, let the winds blow and the 
waves roll as they might, she would still cling to 
them. After lunch she spoke to her aunt with 
great courage — as the duchess thought, with 
great effrontery. "My uncle wouldn't speak to 
Lord Rufford before he went ?" 

" How could he speak to a man who ran away 
from his house in that way ?" 

"The running-away, as you call it, aunt, did 
not take place till two days after I had told you 
all about it. I thought he would have done as 
much as that for his brother's daughter. " 

"I don't believe in it at all," said the duchess, 
sternly. 

"Don't believe in what, aunt? Youdon'tmean 
to say that you don't believe that Lord Rufford 
has asked me to be his wife ! " Then she paused ; 
but the duchess absolutely lacked the courage to 
express her conviction again. " I don't suppose 
it signifies much," continued Arabella; "but of 
course it would have been something to me that 
Lord Rufford should have known that the duke 
was anxious for my welfare. He was quite pre- 
pared to have assured my uncle of his inten- 
tions." 

"Then why didn't he speak himself?" 

" Because the duke is not my father. Really, 
aunt, when I hear you talk of his running away, 
I do feel it to be unkind. As if we didn't all 
know that a man like that goes and comes as he 
pleases. It was just before dinner that he got 
the message, and was he to run round and wish 
every bodv good-bye, like a school-girl going to 
bed ?" 

The duchess was almost certain that no mes- 
sage had come, and, from various little tilings 
which she had observed and from tidings which 
reached her, very much doubted whether Ara- , 
bella had known any thing of his intended go- 
ing. She, too, had a maid of her own who on 
occasions could bring information. But she had 
nothing further to say on the subject. If Ara- 
bella should ever become Lady Rufford, she 
would of course, among other visitors, be occa- 
sionally received at Mistletoe. She could never 
be a favorite; but things would, to a certain de^ 



106 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



gree, have rectified themselves. But if, as the 
duchess expected, no such marriage took place, 
then this ill-conducted niece should never he ad- 
mitted within the house again. 

Later on in the afternoon, some hours after 
it became dusk, Arabella contrived to meet her 
aunt in the hall with a letter in her hand, and 
asked where the letter-box was. She knew 
where to deposit her letters as well as did the 
duchess herself; but she desired an opportunity 
of pi'oclaiming what she had done, ' ' I am writ- 
ing to Lord Rufford. Perhaps, as I am in your 
house, I ought to tell you what I have done." 

' ' The letter-box is in the billiard-room, close 
to the door," said the duchess, passing on. Then 
she added as she went, ' ' The post for to-day has 
gone already." 

" His lordship will have to wait a day for his 
letter. I dare say it won't break his heait," 
said Arabella, as she turned away to the billiard- 
room. 

All this had been planned : and, moreover, 
she had so written her letter that, if her magnifi- 
cent aunt should condescend to tamper with it, 
all that was in it should seem to corroborate her 
own story. The duchess would have considered 
herself disgraced if ever she had done such a 
thing ; but tlie niece of the duchess did not quite 
understand that this would be so. The letter 
was as follows : 

"Mistletoe, 19 Jany., 1S75. 

"Deaeest R , — Your going off like that 

was, after all, very horrid. My aunt thinks that 
you were running away from me. I think that 
you were running away fi'ora her. Which was 
true? In real earnest, I don't for a moment 
think that either I or the duchess had any thing 
to do with it, and that you did go because some 
horrid man wrote and asked you. I know you 
don't like being bound by any of the convention- 
alities. I hope there is such a W'ord, and that, 
if not, you'll understand it just the same. 

"Oh, Peltry — and oh. Jack — and oh, that 
road back to Stamford ! I am so stiff that I 
can't sit upright ; and every body is cross to me, 
and every thing is uncomfortable. What hor- 
rible things women are ! There isn't one here, 
not even old Lady Rumpus, who hasn't an un- 
married daughter left in the world, who isn't 
jealous of me, because — because — I must leave 
you to guess why they all hate me so ! And I'm 
sure if you had given Jack to any other woman 
1 should hate her, though you may give every 
horse you have to any man that you please. I 
wonder whether I shall have another day's hunt- 
ing before it is all over. I suppose not. It was 
almost by a miracle that we managed yesterday 
— only fancy — yesterday ! It seems to be an age 
ago! 

"Pray, pray, pray write to me at once — to 
the Connop Green, so that I may get a nice, 
soft, pleasant word directly I get among those 
nasty, hard, unpleasant people. They have lots 
of money, and plenty of furniture, and, I dare 
say, the best things to eat and drink in the world, 
but nothing else. There will be no Jack ; and 
if there were, alas ! alas ! no one to show me the 
way to ride him. 

"I start to-morrow, and, as far as I under- 
stand, shall have to make my way into Hamp- 
shire all by mj'self, with only such security as 
my maid can give me. I shall make her go in 



the same carriage, and shall have the gratifica- 
tion of looking at her all the way, I suppose I 
ouglit not to say that I will shut my eyes, and 
try to think that somebody else is there. 

" Good-bye, dear, dear, dear R. I shall be dy- 
ing for a letter from you. Yours ever, with all 
my heart. A, 

"I shall write you such a serious epistle when 
I get to the Green," 

This was not such a letter as she thought that 
her aunt would approve ; but it was, she fancied, 
such as the duchess would believe that she would 
write to her lover. And if it were allowed to go 
on its way, it would make Lord Rufford feel that 
she was neither alarmed nor displeased by the 
suddenness of his departure. But it was not ex- 
pected to do much good. It might produce some 
short, joking, half-affectionate reply, but would 
not draw from him that serious word which was 
so necessary for the success of her scheme. There- 
fore she had told him that she intended to pre- 
pare a serious missile. Should this pleasant lit- 
tle message of love miscarry, the serious missile 
would still be sent, and the miscarriage would 
occasion no harm. 

But then further plans were necessary. It 
might be that Lord Rufford would take no no- 
tice of the serious missile — which she thouglit 
very probable. Or it might be that he would 
send back a seiious reply, in which lie would 
calmly explain to her that she had unfortunate- 
ly mistaken his sentiments — which she believed 
would be a stretch of manhood beyond his reach. 
But in either case she would be prepared with 
the course which she would follow. In the first 
she would begin by forcing her father to write 
to him a letter which she herself would dictate ; 
in the second she would set the whole family at 
him, as far as the family were within her reach. 
With her cousin Lord Mistletoe, who was only 
two years older than herself, she had always 
held pleasant relations. They had been chil- 
dren together, and as they had grown up the 
young lord had liked his pretty cousin. Latter- 
ly they had seen each other but rarely, and there- 
fore the feeling still remained. She would tell 
Lord Mistletoe her whole story — that is, the sto- 
ry as she would please to tell it — and implore 
his aid. Her father should be driven to demand 
from Lord Ruft'ord an execution of his alleged 
promises. She herself would write such a letter 
to the duke as an uncle should be unable not 
to notice. She would move heaven and earth as 
to her wrongs. She thought that if her friends 
would stick to her. Lord Rufford would be 
weak as water in their hands. But it must be 
all done immediately; so that, if every thing 
failed, she miglit be ready to start to Patagonia 
some time in April. When she looked back and 
remembered that it was hardly more than two 
months since she had been taken to Rufford Hall 
by Mr. Morton, she could not accuse herself of 
having lost any time. 

In London she met her mother — as to which 
meeting there had been some doubt — and under- 
went the tortures of a close examination. She 
had thought it prudent on this occasion to tell 
her mother something, but not to tell any thing 
quite truly, " He has proposed to me," she said. 

"He has!" said Lady Augustus, holding up 
her hands almost in awe. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



107 



*'Is there any thing so wonderful in that?" 

"Then it is all arranged. Does the duke 
know it ?" 

" It is not all arranged by any means, and the 
duke does know it. Now, mamma, after that I 
must decline to answer any more questions. I 
have done this all myself, and I mean to con- 
tinue it in the same way." 

"Did he speak to the duke? You will tell 
me that." 

"I will tell you notliing." 

"You will drive me mad, Arabella." 

"That will be better tlian your driving me 
mad just at present. You ought to feel that I 
have a great deal to think of." 

"And have not I?" 

" You can't help me — not at present." 

" But he did propose— in absolute words?" 

"Mamma, what a goose you are! Do you 
suppose that men do it all now just as it is done 
in books. ' Miss Arabella Trefoil, will you do 
me the honor to become my wife?' Do you 
think that Lord RufFord would ask the question 
in that way ?" 

" It is a very good way. " 

"Any way is a good way that answers the 
purpose. He has proposed, and I mean to make 
him stick to it." 

" You doubt, then ?" 

" Mamma, you are so silly! Do you not know 
what such a man is well enough to be sure that 
he'll change his mind half a dozen times if he 
can. I don't mean to let him ; and now, after 
that, I won't say another word." 

"I have got a letter here from Mr. Short say- 
ing that something must be fixed about Mr. 
Morton." Mr. Short was the lawyer who had 
been instructed to prepare the settlements. 

"Mr. Short may do whatever he likes," said 
Arabella. There were very hot words between 
them that night in London, but the mother could 
obtain no further information from her daughter. 

That serious epistle had been commenced even 
before Arabella had left Mistletoe ; but the com- 
position was one which required great care, and 
it was not completed and copied and recopied till 
she had been two days in Hampshire. Not even 
when it was finished did she say a word to her 
mother about it. She had doubted much as to 
the phrases which in such an emergency she 
ought to use, but she thought it safer to trust to 
herself than to her mother. In writing such a 
letter as that posted at Mistletoe she believed 
herself to be happy. She could write it quickl)', 
and understood that she could convey to her cor- 
respondent some sense of her assumed mood. 
But her serious letter would, she feared, be stiff 
and repulsive. Whether her fears were right 
the reader shall judge, for the letter, when writ- 
ten, was as follows : 

" Marygold Place, Basingstoke, Saturday. 
"My dear Lord Rufford, — You will, I 
suppose, have got the letter that I wrote before 
I left Mistletoe, and which I directed to Mr. 
Surbiton's. There was not much in it — except 
a word or two as to your going and as to my 
desolation, and just a reminiscence of the hunt- 
ing. There was no reproach that you should 
have left me without any farewell, or that you 
should have gone so suddenly, after saying so 
much, without saying more. I wanted you to 



feel that you had made me very happy, and not 
to feel that your departure in such a way had 
robbed me of part of the happiness. 

"It was a little bad of you, because it did, of 
course, leave me to the hardness of my aunt ; and 
because all the other women there would of 
course follow her. She Iiad inquired about our 
journey home — that dear journey home — and I 
had of course told her — well, I had better say it 
out at once ; I told her that we were engaged. 
You, I am sure, will think that the truth was 
best. She wanted to know why you did not go 
to the duke. I told her that the duke was not 
my father ; but that, as fiir as I was concerned, 
the duke might speak to you or not as he pleased. 
I had nothing to conceal. I am very glad he 
did not, because he is pompous, and you would 
have been bored. If there is one thing I desire 
more than another, it is that nothing belonging 
to me shall ever be a bore to you. I hope I 
may never stand in the way of any thing that 
will gratify you — as I said when you lighted that 
cigar. You will have forgotten, I dare say. 
But, dear RufFord — dearest; I may say that, 
mayn't I ? — say something, or do something to 
make me satisfied. You know what I mean ; 
don't you? It isn't that I am a bit afraid my- 
self. I don't think so little of myself, or so bad- 
ly of you. But I don't like other women to look 
at me as though I ought not to be proud of any 
thing. I am proud of every thing ; particularly 
proud of you — and of Jack. 

"Now there is my serious epistle, and I am 
sure that you will answer it lilce a dear, good, 
kind-hearted, loving — lover. I won't be afraid 
of writing the word, nor q{ saying that I love 
you with all my heart, and that I am always 
your own Arabella." 

She kept the letter till the Sunday, thinking that 
she might have an answer to that written from 
Mistletoe, and that his reply might alter its tone, 
or induce her to put it aside altogether; but 
when on Sunday morning none came, her own 
was sent. The word in it which frightened her- 
self was the word " engaged." She tried various 
other phrases, but declared to herself at last that 
it was useless to "beat about the bush." He 
must know the light in which she was pleased 
to regard those passages of love which she had 
permitted, so that there might be no mistake. 
Whether the letter would be to his liking or not, 
it must be of such a nature that it would cer- 
tainly draw from him an answer on which she 
could act. She herself did not like the letter; 
but, considering her difficulties, we may own that 
it was not much amiss. 



CHAPTER XLV. 

LORD RUFFORD MAIvES UP HIS MIND. 

As it happened. Lord RuiFord got the two 
letters together, the cause of which was as fol- 
lows : 

When he ran away from Mistletoe, as he cer- 
tainly did, he had thought much about that jour- 
ney home in the carriage, and was quite aware 
that he had made an ass of himself. As he sat 
at dinner on that day at Mistletoe, his neighbor 
had said some word to him in joke as to his at- 



108 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



tachment to Miss Trefoil ; and after the ladies 
had left the room, another neighbor of the other 
sex had hoped that he had had a pleasant time 
on the road. Again, in the drawing-room it had 
seemed to him that he was observed. He could 
not refrain from sajing a few words to Arabella, 
as she lay on the sofa. Not to do so after what 
had occurred would have been in itself peculiar. 
But when he did so, some other man who was 
near her made way for him, as though she were 
acknowledged to be altogether his property. And 
then the duchess had striven to catch him, and 
lead him into special conversation. When this 
attempt was made, he decided that he must at 
once retreat, or else make up his mind to marry 
the young lady. And therefore he retreated. 

He breakfasted that morning at the inn at 
Stamford, and as he smoked his cigar afterward 
he positively resolved that he would under no 
circumstances marry Arabella Trefoil. He was 
being hunted and run down, and, with the in- 
stinct of all animals that are hunted, he prepared 
himself for escape. It might be said, no doubt 
would be said, that he behaved badly. That 
would be said because it would not be open to 
him to tell the truth. The lady in such a case 
can always tell her story, with what exaggeration 
she may please to give, and can complain. The 
man never can do so. When inquired into, he 
can not say that he has been pursued. He can 
not tell her friends that she began it, and, in 
point of fact, did it all. "She would fall into 
my arms ; she would embrace me ; she persisted 
in asking me whether I loved her!" Though a 
man have to be shot for it, or kicked for it, or 
even though he have to endure perpetual scorn 
for it, he can not say that, let it be ever so true. 
And yet is a man to be forced into a marriage 
which he despises? He would not be forced 
into the marriage, and the sooner he retreated, 
the less would be the metaphorical shooting and 
kicking and the real scorn. He must get out of 
it as best he could ; but that he would get out 
of it he was quite determined. 

That afternoon he reached Mr. Surbiton's 
house, as did also Captain Battersby, and his 
horses, grooms, and other belongings. When 
there he received a lot of letters, and among 
others one from Mr. Runciman, of The Bush, in- 
quiring as to a certain hiring of rooms and prep- 
aration of a dinner or dinners which had been 
spoken of in I'eference to a final shooting decreed 
to take place in the neighborhood of Dillsborough 
in the last week of January. Such things were 
often planned by Lord Rufford, and afterward 
forgotten or neglected. When he declared his 
purpose to Runciman, he had not intended to go 
to Mistletoe, nor to stay so long with his friend 
Surbiton. But now he almost thought that it 
would be better for him to be back at Rufford 
Hall, where at present his sister was staying with 
her husband. Sir George Penwether. 

In the evening of the second or third day his 
old friend Tom Surbiton said a few words to him 
which had the effect of sending him back to 
Rufford. Thej' had sat out the rest of the men 
who formed the party, and were alone in the 
smoking - room. ' ' So you're going to marry 
Miss Trefoil," said Tom Surbiton, who, per- 
haps, of all his friends was the most intimate. 

"Who says so?" 

"I am saying so at present." 



"You are not saying it on your own authori- 
ty. You have never seen me and Miss Trefoil 
in a room together." 

" Every body says so. Of gourse such a thing 
can not be arranged without being talked about." 

"It has not been arranged." 

"If you don't mean to have it an-anged, you 
had better look to it. I am speaking in earnest, 
Rufford. I am not going to give up authorities. 
Indeed if I did, I might give up every body. The 
very servants suppose that they know it, and 
there isn't a groom or horse-boy about who isn't 
in his heart congratulating the young lady on her 
promotion." 

" I'll tell you what it is, Tom—" 

"Well, what is it?" 

' ' If this had come from any other man than 
yourself, I should quarrel with him. I am not 
engaged to the young lady, nor have I done any 
thing to warrant any body in saying so." 

" Then I may contradict it." 

"I don't want 3-ou either to contradict it or 
affirm it. It would be an impertinence to the 
young lady if I were to instruct any one to con- 
tradict such a report. But, as a fact, I am not 
engaged to marry Miss Trefoil, nor is there the 
slightest chance that I ever shall be so engaged. " 
So saying, he took up his candlestick and walked 
off. 

Early on the next morning he saw his friend, 
and made some sort of laughing apology for his 
heat on the previous evening. " It is so d — d 
hard when these kind of things are said because 
a man has lent a young lady a horse. However, 
Tom, between you and me the thing is a lie." 

" I am very glad to hear it," said Tom. 

"And now I want you to come over to Ruf- 
ford on the twenty-eighth." Then he explained 
the details of his proposed party, and got his 
friend to promise that he would come. He also 
made it understood that he was going home at 
once. There were a hundred things, he said, 
which made it necessary. So the horses, and 
grooms, and servant, and portmanteaus were 
again made to move, and Lord Rufford left his 
friend on that day, and went up to London on 
his road to Rufford. 

He was certainly disturbed in his mind, fore- 
seeing that there might be much difficulty in his 
way. He remembered with fair accuracy all 
that had occurred during the journey from Stam- 
ford to Mistletoe. He felt assured that up to 
that time he had said nothing which could be 
taken to mean a real declaration of love. All 
that at Rufford had been nothing. He had nev- 
er said a word which could justify the girl in a 
hope. In the carriage she had asked him wheth- 
er he loved her, and he had said that he did. 
He had also declared that he would do any thing 
in his power to make her happy. Was a man 
to be bound to marry a girl because of such a 
scene as that ? There was, however, nothing for 
him to do except to keep out of the girl's way. 
If she took any steps, then he must act. But as 
he thought of it, he swore to himself that nothing 
should induce him to marry her. 

He remained a couple of days in town, and 
reached Rufford Hall on the Monday — just a 
week from the day of that fatal meet at Peltry. 
There he found Sir George and his sister and 
Miss Penge, and spent his first evening in quiet. 
On the Tuesday he hunted with the U. R. U., 



THE AMEKICAN SENATOE. 



109 



nnd made his arrangements with Eunciman. 
He invited Hampton to shoot with him. Surbi- 
ton and Battersby were coming, and his brother- 
in-law. Not wishing to have less than six guns, 
he asked Hampton how he could make up his 
party. "Morton doesn't shoot," he said, "and 
is as stiff as a post." Then he was told that 
John Morton was supposed to be very ill at Brag- 
ton, "I'm sick of both the Botseys," continued 
the lord, thinking more of his party than of Mr. 
Morton's health. "Purefoy is still sulky with 
me because he killed poor old Caneback." Then 
Hampton suggested that if he would ask Law- 
rence Twentyman, it might be the means of sav- 
ing that unfortunate young man's life. The sto- 
ry of his unrequited love was known to every one 
at Dillsborough, and it w'as now told to Lord Euf- 
foi"d. ' ' He is not half a bad fellow," said Hamp- 
ton, " and quite as much like a gentleman as 
either of the Botseys." 

"I shall be delighted to save the life of so 
good a man on such easy terms," said the lord. 
Then and there, with a pencil, on the back of an 
old letter, he wrote a line to Larry asking him 
to shoot on next Saturday, and to dine with hira 
afterward at The Bush. 

That evening on his return home he found 
both the letters from Arabella. As it happened, 
he read them in the order in which they had 
been written, first the laughing letter, and then 
the one that was declared to be serious. The 
earlier of the two did not annoy him much. It 
contained hardly more than those former letters 
which had induced him to go to Mistletoe. But 
the second letter opened up her entire strategy. 
She had told the duchess that she was engaged 
to him, and the duchess, of course, would have 
told the duke. And now she wrote to him ask- 
ing him to acknowledge the engagement in black 
and white. The first letter he might have ig- 
nored. He might have left it unanswered with- 
out gross misconduct. But the second letter, 
which she herself had declared to be a serious 
epistle, was one which he could not neglect. 
Now had come his difficulty. What must he do ? 
How should he answer it? Was it imperative 
on him to write the words with his own hand? 
Would it be possible that he should get his sister 
to undertake the commission? He said noth- 
ing about it to any one for four - and - twenty 
hours ; but he passed those hours in much dis- 
comfort. It did seem so hard to him that, be- 
cause he had been forced to carry a lady home 
from hunting in a post-chaise, he should be 
driven to such straits as this ! The girl was ev- 
idently prepared to make a fight of it. There 
would be the duke and the duchess, and that 
prig Mistletoe, and that idle ass, Lord Augustus, 
and that venomous old woman, her mother, all 
at him. He almost doubted whether a shooting 
excursion in Central Africa or a visit to the 
Pampas would not be the best thing for him. 
But still, though he should resolve to pass five 
years among the Andes, he must answer the 
lady's letter before he went. 

Then he made up his mind that he would tell 
every thing to his brother-in-law, as far as eveiy 
thing can be told in such a matter. Sir George 
was near fifty, full fifteen years older than his 
wife, who was again older than her brother. He 
was a man of moderate wealth, very much re- 
spected, and supposed to be possessed of almost 



infinite wisdom. He was one of those few hu- 
man beings who seem never to make a mistake. 
Whatever he put his hand to came out well — 
and yet every body liked him. His brothei'-in- 
law was a little afraid of him, but yet was always 
glad to see him. He kept an excellent house in 
London, but, having no country house of his own, 
passed much of his time at Euft'ord Hall when 
the owner was not there. In spite of the young 
peer's numerous faults, Sir George was much at- 
tached to him, and always ready to help him in 
his difficulties. " Penwethei'," said the lord, "I 
have got myself into an awful scrape." 

"I am soi-ry to hear it. A woman, I su})- 
pose." 

" Oh yes. I never gamble, and therefore no 
other scrape can be awful. A young lady wants 
to marry me." 

"That is not unnatural." 

"But I am quite determined, let the result be 
what it may, that I won't marry the young lady." 

" That will be unfortunate for her, and the 
more so if she has a right to expect it. Is the 
young lady Miss Trefoil ?" 

"I did not mean to mention any name till I 
was sure it might be necessary. But it is Miss 
Trefoil. " 

"Eleanor had told me something of it." 

"Eleanor knows nothing about this, and I do 
not wish you to tell her. The young lady was 
here with her mother — and, for the matter of 
that, with a gentleman to whom she was certain- 
ly engaged ; but nothing particular occurred here. 
That unfortunate ball was going on when poor 
Caneback was dying. But I met her since that 
at Mistletoe. " 

"I can hardly advise, you know, unless you 
tell me every thing." 

Then Lord Eufford began. "These kind of 
things are sometimes deuced hard upon a man. 
Of course if a man were a saint or a philosopher 
or a Joseph, he wouldn't get into such scrapes, 
and perhaps every man ought to be something of 
that sort. But I don't know how a man is to 
do it, unless it's born with him." 

"A little prudence, I should say." 

' ' You might as well tell a fellow that it is his 
duty to be six feet high." 

" But what have you said to the young lady, 
or what has she said to you ?" 

" There has been a great deal more of the lat- 
ter than the former. I say so to you, but of 
course it is not to be said that I have said so. I 
can not go forth to the world complaining of a 
young lady's conduct to me. It is a matter in 
which a man must not tell the truth." 

"But what is the truth?" 

"She writes me word to say that she has told 
all her friends that I am engaged to her, and 
kindly presses me to make good her assurances 
by becoming so." 

"And what has passed between you?" 

"A fainting fit in a carriage, and half a 
dozen kisses." 

"Nothing more?" 

" Nothing more that is material. Of course 
one can not tell it all down to each mawkish 
word of humbugging sentiment. There are her 
letters; and what I want you to remember is 
that I never asked her to be my wife, and that 
no consideration on earth shall induce me to be- 
come her husband. Though all the duchesses 



110 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



in England were to persecute me to the death, I 
mean to stick to that." 

Then Sir George read the letters and handed 
them back. "She seems to me," said he, "to 
have more wit about her than any of the family 
that I have had the honor of meeting." 

" She has wit enough — and pluck too." 

"You have never said a word to her to en- 
courage these hopes ?" 

' ' My dear Pen wether, don't you know that if 
a man with a large income says to a girl like that 
that the sun shines he encourages hope ? I un- 
derstand that well enough. I am a rich man 
with a title, and a big house, and a great com- 
mand of luxuries. There are so many young la- 
dies who would also like to be rich, and to have 
a title, and a big house, and a command of lux- 
uries ! One sometimes feels one's self like a car- 
cass in the midst of vultures." 

' ' Marry after a proper fashion, and you'll get 
rid of all that. " 

"I'll think about it; but, in the mean time, 
what can I say to this young woman ? When I 
acknowledge that I kissed her, of course I en- 
couraged hopes." 

"No doubt." 

"But St. Anthony would have had to kiss this 
young woman if she had made her attack upon 
him as she did on me; and, after all, a kiss 
doesn't go for every thing. These are things, 
Penwether, that must not be inquired into too 
curiously. But I won't marry her, though it 
were a score of kisses. And now what must I 
do?" Sir George said that he would take till 
the next morning to think about it, meaning to 
make a draft of the reply which he thought his 
brother-in-law might best send to the lady. 



CHAPTER XLVI. 
"it can not be arranged." 

When Reginald Morton received his aunt's 
letter, he understood from it more than she had 
intended. Of course the man to whom allusion 
was made was Mr. Twentyman ; and of course 
the discomfort at home had come from Mrs. 
Masters's approval of that suitor's claim. Reg- 
inald, though he had seen but little of the inside 
of the attorney's household, thought it very prob- 
able that the step-mother would make the girl's 
home very uncomfortable for her. Though he 
knew well all the young farmer's qualifications 
as a husband — namely, that he was well-to-do 
in the world and bore a good character for hon- 
esty and general conduct — still he thoroughly, 
nay, heartily, approved of Mary's rejection of the 
man's hand. It seemed to him to be sacrilege 
that such a one should have given to him such a 
woman. There was, to his thinking, something 
about Mary Masters that made it altogether un- 
fit that she should pass her life as the mistress of 
Chowton Parm, and he honored her for the per- 
sistence of her refusal. He took his pipe and 
went out into the garden, in order that he might 
think of it all as he strolled round his little do- 
main. 

But why should he think so much about it? 
Why should he take so deep an interest in the 
matter ? What was it to him whether Mary Mas- 
ters married after her kind, or descended into 



what he felt to be an inferior manner of life ? 
Then he tried to tell himself what Avere the gifts 
in the girl's possession which made her what she 
was, and he pictured her to himself, running over 
all her attributes. It was not that she specially 
excelled in beauty. He had seen Miss Trefoil 
as she was being driven about the neighborhood, 
and having heard much of the young lady as the 
future wife of his own cousin, had acknowledged 
to himself that she was very handsome. But he 
had thought at the same time that under no pos- 
sible circumstances could he have fallen in love 
with Miss Trefoil. He believed that he did not 
care much for female beauty, and yet he felt that 
he could sit and look at Mary Masters by the 
hour together. There was a quiet, even com- 
posure about her, always hghtened by the bright- 
ness of her modest eyes, which seemed to tell 
him of some mysterious world within, which was 
like the unseen loveliness that one fancies to be 
hidden within the bosom of distant mountains. 
There was a poem to be read there of surpass- 
ing beauty, rythmical and eloquent as the music 
of the spheres, if it might only be given to a man 
to read it. There was an absence, too, of all at- 
tempt at feminine self-glorification, which he did 
not analyze, but thoroughly appreciated. There 
was no fussy amplification of hair, no made-up 
smiles, no aifectation either in her good humor 
or her anger, no attempt at effect in her gait, in 
her speech, or her looks. She seemed to him to 
be one who had something within her on which 
she could feed independently of the grosser de- 
tails of the world to which it was her duty to 
lend her hand. And then her color charmed 
his eyes. Miss Trefoil was white and red — 
white as pearl-powder and red as paint. Mary 
Masters, to tell the truth, was brown. No doubt 
that was the prevailing color, if one color must 
be named. But there was so rich a tint of young 
life beneath the surface, so soft but yet so visible 
an assurance of blood and health and spirit, that 
no one could describe her complexion by so ugly 
a word without falsifying her gifts. In all her 
movements she was tranquil, as a noble woman 
should be. Even when she had turned from him 
with some anger at the bridge, she had walked 
like a princess. There was a certainty of mod- 
esty about her which was like a granite wall or 
a strong fortress. As he thought of it all, he 
did not understand how such a one as Lawrence 
Twentyman should have dared to ask her to be 
his wife, or should even have wished it. 

We know what were her feelings in regard to 
himself — how she had come to look almost with 
worship on the walls within which he lived ; but 
he had guessed nothing of this. Even now, when 
he knew that she had applied to his aunt in or- 
der that she might escape from her lover, it did 
not occur to him that she could care for himself. 
He was older than she, nearly twenty years old- 
er, and even in his younger years, in the hard 
struggles of his early life, had never regarded 
himself as a man likely to find favor with wom- 
en. There was in his character much of that 
modesty for which he gave her such infinite cred- 
it. Though he thought but little of most o^ those 
around him, he thought also but little of himself. 
It would break his heart to ask and be refused ; 
but he could, he fancied, live very well without 
Mary Masters. Such, at any rate, had been his 
own idea of himself hitherto ; and now, though 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



Ill 



he was driven to think much of her, though on 
the present occasion he was forced to act on her 
behalf, he would not tell himself that he wanted 
to take her for his wife. He constantly assured 
himself that he wanted no wife, that for liim a 
solitary life would be the best. But yet it made 
him wretched when he reflected that some man 
would assuredly marry Mary Masters. He had 
heard of that excellent but empty-headed young 
man, Mr. Surtees. Wiien the idea occuiTed to 
him, he found himself reviling Mr. Surtees as be- 
ing of all men the most puny, the most unmanly, 
and the least worthy of marrying Mary Masters. 
Now that Mr.Twentyman was certainly disposed 
of, he almost became jealous of Mr. Surtees. 

It was not till three or four o'clock in the aft- 
ernoon that he went out on his commission to 
the attorney's house, having made up his mind 
that he would do every thing in his power to fa- 
cilitate Mary's proposed return to Cheltenham. 
He asked first for Mr. Masters and then for Miss 
Masters, and learned that they were both out to- 
gether. But he had been desired also to see 
Mrs. Masters, and on inquiring for her was again 
shown into the grand drawing-room. Here he 
remained a quarter of an hour wliile the lady of 
the house was changing her cap and apron, which 
he spent in convincing himself tliat this house 
was altogether an unfit residence for Mary. In 
the chamber in which he was standing it was 
clear enough that no human being ever lived. 
Mary's drawing-room ought to be a bower in 
which she at least might pass her time with books 
and music and pretty things around her. The 
squalor of the real living-room might be conject- 
ured from the untouched cleanliness of this use- 
less sanctum. At last the lady came to him, and 
welcomed him with very grim courtesy. As a 
client of her husband he was very well, but as a 
nephew of Lady Ushant he was injurious. It 
was he who had carried Mary away to Chel- 
tenham, where she had been instigated to throw 
her bread-and-butter into the fire — as Mrs. Mas- 
ters expressed it — by tiiat pernicious old woman 
Lady TJshant. "Mr. Masters is out walking," 
she said. Reginald clearly understood by the 
contempt which she threw, almost unconsciously, 
into her words that she did not approve of her 
husband going out walking at such an hour. 

"I had a message for him, and also for you. 
My aunt. Lady Ushant, is very anxious that your 
daughter Mary should return to her at Chel- 
tenham for a while." The proposition, to Mrs. 
Masters's thinking, was so monstrous, and was at 
the same time so unexpected, that it almost took 
away her breath. At any rate, she stood for a 
moment speechless. "My aunt is very fond of 
3'our daughter," he continued, "and, if she can 
be spared, would be delighted to have her. Per- 
haps she has written to Miss Masters, but she 
has asked me to come over and see if it can not 
be arranged," 

"It can not be arranged," said Mrs. Masters. 
"Nothing of the kind can be arranged." 

" I am sorry for that." 

"It is only disturbing the girl, and upsetting 
her, and filling her head full of nonsense. "What 
is she to do at Cheltenham ? This is her home, 
and here she had better be. " Though things had 
hitherto gone very badly, though Larry Twenty- 
man had not shown himself since the receipt of 
the letter, still Mrs. Masters had not abandoned 



all hope. She was fixed in opinion that if her 
husband were joined with her they could still, 
between them, so break the girl's spirit as to 
force her into a marriage. "As for letters," she 
continued, "I don't know any thing about them. 
There may have been letters, but, if so, they have 
been kept from me. " She was so angry that she 
could not even attempt to conceal her wrath. 

"Lady Ushant thinks — "began the messen- 
ger. 

" Oh yes, Lady Ushant is very well, of course. 
Lady Ushant is your aunt, Mr. Morton, and I 
haven't any thing to say against her. But Lady 
Ushant can't do any good to that girl. She has 
got her bread to earn, and if she won't do it one 
way, then she must do it another. She's obsti- 
nate and pig-headed, that's the truth of it. And 
her father's just as bad. He has taken her out 
now merely because she likes to be idle, and to 
go about thinking herself a fine lady. Lady 
Ushant doesn't do her any good at all by cock- 
ering her up." 

"My aunt, you know, saw very much of her 
when she was young." 

"I know she did, JMr. Morton; and all that 
has to be undone, and I have got the undoing of 
it. Lady Ushant is one thing, and her papa's 
business is quite another. At any rate, if I have 
my say, she'll not go to Cheltenham any more. 
I don't mean to be uncivil to yon, Mr. Morton, 
or to say any thing as oughtn't to be said of your 
aunt. But when you can't make people any thing 
but what they are, it's my opinion that it's best to 
leave them alone. Good-day to you, sir, and I 
hope you understand what it is that I mean." 

Then Morton retreated and went down the 
stairs, leaving the lady in possession of her own 
grandeur. He had not quite understood what 
slie had meant, and was still wondering at the 
energy of her opposition, when he met Mary her- 
self at the front door. Her father was not with 
her, but his retreating form was to be seen en- 
tering the portal of The Bush. "Oh, Mr. Mor- 
ton!" exclaimed Mary, surprised to have the 
house-door opened for lier by him. 

"I have come with a message from my aunt." 

" She told me that you would do so." 

"Lady Ushant would, of course, be delighted 
to have you, if it could be arranged." 

"Then Lady Ushant will be disappointed," 
said Mrs. Masters, who had descended the stairs. 
" There has been something going on behind my 
back." 

"I w.rote to Lady Ushant," said Mary. 

"I call that sly and deceitful — very sly and 
very deceitful. If I know it, you won't stir out 
of this house to go to Cheltenham. I wonder 
Lady Ushant would go to put you up in that way 
against those you're Ijound to obey." 

"I thought Mrs. Masters had been told," said 
Reginald. 

" Papa did know that I wrote," said Mary. 

"Yes; and in this way a conspiracy is to be 
made up in the house ! If she goes to Chelten- 
ham, I won't stay here. You may tell Lady 
Ushant that I say that. I'm not going to be 
one thing one day and another another, and to 
be made a tool of all round. " By this time Dol- 
ly and Kate had come down from the upper re- 
gions, and were standing behind their mother. 
"What do you two do there, standing gaping 
like fools?" said the angry mother. "I suppose 



112 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



your father has .gone over to the public-house 
again. That, miss, is what comes from your 
pig-headiness. Didn't I tell you that you were 
ruining every body belonging to you ?" Before 
all this was over Reginald Morton had escaped, 
feeling that he could do no good to either side by 
remaining a witness to such a scene. He must 
take some other opportunity of finding the at- 
torney, and of learning from him whether he in- 
tended that his daughter should be allowed to 
accept Lady Ushant's invitation. 

Poor Mary, as she shrunk into the house, was 
nearly heart-broken. That such things should 
be at all was very dreadful, but that the scene 
should have taken place in the presence of Regi- 
nald Morton was an aggravation of the misery 
which nearly overwhelmed her. How could she 
make him understand whence had arisen her 
step-mother's anger, and that she herself had 
been neither sly nor deceitful nor pig-headed ? 



CHAPTER XLVII. 

''but there is some one." 

When Mi-. Masters had gone across to The 
Bush, his purpose had certainly been ignoble, but 
it had had no reference to brandy-and-water ; and 
the allusion made by Mrs. Masters to the proba- 
ble ruin which Avas to come from his tendencies 
in that direction had been calumnious, for she 
knew that the man was not given to excess in 
liquor. But as he approached his own house, he 
bethought himself that it would not lead to do- 
mestic comfort if he were seen returning from 
his walk with Mary, and he had, therefore, made 
some excuse as to the expediency of saying a 
word to Runciman, whom he espied at his own 
door. He said his word to Runciman, and so 
loitered away perhaps a quarter of an hour, and 
then went back to his office. But his wife had 
kept her anger at burning -heat, and pounced 
upon him before he had taken his seat. Sun- 
down was there copying, sitting with his eyes in- 
tent on the board before him, as though he were 
quite unaware of the sudden entrance of his mas- 
ter's wife. She, in her fury, did not regard 
Sundown in the least, but at once commenced 
her attack. "What' is all this, Mr. Masters," 
she said, "about Lady Ushant and going to 
Cheltenham ? I won't have any going to Chel- 
tenham, and that's flat ! " Now the attorney had 
altogether made up his mind that his daughter 
should go to Cheltenham if her friend would re- 
ceive her. Whatever might be the consequences, 
they must be borne. But he thought it best to 
say nothing at the iirst moment of the attack, 
and simply turned his sorrowful round face in si- 
lence up to the partner of all his cares and the 
source of so many of them. " There have been 
letters," continued the lady — "letters which no- 
body has told me nothing about. That proud 
peacock from Hoppet Hall has been here, as 
though he had nothing to do but carry Mary 
away about the country just as he pleased. Mary 
won't go to Cheltenham with him nor yet with- 
out him — not if I am to remain here !" 

"Where else should you remain, my dear?" 
asked the attorney. 

" I'd sooner go into the work-house than have 
all this turmoil. That's where we are all likely 



to go, if you pass your time between walking 
about with that minx and the public-house oppo- 
site." Then the attorney was aware that he had 
been watched, and his spirit began to rise within 
him. He looked at Sundown, but the man went 
on copying quicker than ever. 

" My dear," said Mr. Masters, "you shouldn't 
talk in that way before the clerk. I wanted to 
speak to Mr. Runciman ; and, as to the work- 
house, I don't know that there is any more dan- 
ger now than there has been for the last twenty 
years. " 

"It's always off and on, as far as I can see. 
Do you mean to send that girl to Cheltenham ?" 

' ' I rather think she had better go — for a time. " 

"Then I shall leave this house and go with 
my girls to Norrington. " Now this threat, which 
had been made before, was quite without mean- 
ing. Mrs. Masters's parents were both dead, 
and her brother, who had a large family, certain- 
ly would not receive her, " I won't remain here, 
Mr. Masters, if I ain't to be mistress of my own 
house. What is she to go to Cheltenham for, I 
should like to know ?" 

Then Sundown was desired by his wi'etched 
employer to go into the back settlement, and the 
poor man prepared himself for the battle as well 
as he could. " She is not happy here," he said. 

" Whose fault is that? Why shouldn't she be 
happy? Of course you know what it means. 
She's got round you because she wants to be a 
fine lady. What means have you to make her 
a fine lady ? If you was to die to-morrow, what 
would there be for any of 'em ? My little bit of 
money is all gone. Let her stay here and be 
made to marry Lawrence Twentyman. That's 
what I say. " 

" She will never marry Mr. Twentyman." 

"Not if you go on like this she won't. If 
you'd done your duty by her like a real father, 
instead of being afraid of her when she puts on 
her tantrums, she'd have been at Chowton Farm 
by this time." 

It was clear to him that now was the time not 
to be afraid of his wife when she put on her tan- 
trums, or, at any rate, to appear not to be afraid. 
"She has been very unhappy of late." 

' ' Oh, unhappy ! She's been made more of 
than any body else in this house." 

"And a change will do her good. She has 
my permission to go — and go she shall!" Then 
the word had been spoken. 

"She shall?" 

" It is very much for the best. While she is 
here the house is made wretched for us all." 

' ' It'll be wretcheder yet, unless it would make 
you happy to see me dead on the threshold — 
which I believe it would. As for her, she's an 
ungrateful, sly, wicked slut." 

"She has done nothing wicked, that I know 
of." 

"Not writing to that old woman behind my 
back ?" 

" She told me what she was doing, and show- 
ed me the letter." 

" Yes ; of course. The two of you were in 
it. Does that make it any better ? I say it was 
sly and wicked ; and you were sly and wicked 
as well as she. She has got the better of you, 
and now you are going to send her away from 
the only chance she'll ever get of having a decent 
home of her own over her head." 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



113 



"There's nothing more to be said about it, 
my dear. She'll go to Lady Ushant." Having 
thiis pronounced his dictum with all the marital 
authority he was able to assume, he took his hat 
and sallied forth. Mrs. Masters, when she was 
left alone, stamped her foot and hit tlie desk with 
a ruler that was lying there. Then she went up- 
stairs, and threw lierself on her bed in a parox- 
ysm of weeping and wailing. 

Mr. Masters, when he closed his door, looked 
up the street and down the street, and then again 
Avent across to The Bush. Mr. Runciman was 
still there, and was standing with a letter in his 
hand, while one of the grooms from Rufitbrd Hall 
was holding a horse beside him. "Any answer, 
Mr. Runciman ?" said the groom. 

" Only to tell his lordship that every thing will 
be ready for him. You'd better go through and 
give the horse a feed of corn, and get a bit of 
something to eat and a glass of beer yourself." 
The man wasn't slow to do as he was bid ; and 
in this way The Bush had become very popular 
with the servants of the gentry around the place. 
"His lordship is to be here from Friday to Sun- 
day with a party, Mr. Masters." 

" Oh, indeed." 

"For the end of the shooting. And who do 
you think he has asked to be one of the partv?" 

" Not Mr. Reginald ?" 

" I don't think they ever spoke in their lives. 
Who but Larry Tvventyman !" 

"No!" 

"It'll be the making of Larry. I only hope 
he won't cock his beaver too high." 

"Is he coming?" 

"I suppose so. He'll be sin-e to come. His 
lordship only tells me that there are to be six of 
'era on Saturday and five on Friday night. But 
the lad there knew who they all were. There's 
Mr. Surbiton and Captain Battersby and Sir 
George are to come over with his lordship from 
Rufford. And young Mr. Hampton is to join 
them here, and Larry Twentyman is to shoot 
with them on Saturday and dine afterward. 
Won't those two Botseys be jealous — that's all !" 

"It only shows what they think of Larry," 
said the attorne3^ 

"Larry Twentyman is a very good fellow," 
said the landlord. "I don't know a better fel- 
low round Dillsborough, or one who is more al- 
ways on the square. But he's weak. You know 
him as well as I, Mr. Masters." 

" He's not so weak but what he can keep what 
he's got." 

"This'll be the way to try him. He'd melt 
away like water into sand if he were to live for 
a few weeks with such men as his lordship's 
friends. I suppose there's no chance of his tak- 
ing a wife home to Chowton with him ?" The 
attorney shook his head. "That'd be the mak- 
ing of him, Mr. Masters ; a good girl like that, 
who'd keep him at home. If he takes it to 
heart, he'll burst out somewhere and spend a lot 
of money." 

The attorney declined Mr. Runciman's offer of 
a glass of beer, and slowly made his way round 
the corner of the inn by Hobbs Gate to the front 
door of Hoppet Hall. Then he passed on to the 
church-yard, still thinking of the misery of his 
position. When he reached the church, he turn- 
ed back, still going very slowly, and knocked at 
the door of Hoppet Hall. He was shown at once 
8 



by Reginald's old housekeeper up to the library, 
and there in a few minutes he was joined by the 
master of the house. "I was over looking for 
you an hour or two ago," said Reginald. 

"I heard you were there, Mr. Morton, and so 
I thought I would come to you. You didn't see 
Mary ?" 

"I just saw her, but could hardly say much. 
She had written to my aunt about going to 
Cheltenham." 

"I saw the letter before she sent it, Mr. Mor- 
ton." 

"So she told me. My aunt would be de- 
lighted to have her, but it seems that Mrs. Mas- 
ters does not wish her to go." 

"There is some trouble about it, Mr. Morton ; 
but I may as well tell you at once that I wish her 
to go. She would be better for a while at Chel- 
tenham with such a lady as your aunt than she 
can be at home. Her step-mother and she can 
not agree on a certain point. I dare say you 
know what it is, Mr. Morton." 

" In regard, I suppose, to Mr. Twentyman ?" 

"Just that. Mrs. Masters thinks 'that Mr. 
Twentyman would make an excellent husband ; 
and so do I. There's nothing in the world 
against him, and as compared with me he's a 
rich man. I couldn't give the poor girl any fort- 
une, and he wouldn't want any. But money 
isn't every thing." 

"No, indeed." 

"He's an industrious, steady young man, too, 
and he has had my word with him all through. 
But I can't compel my girl to marry him if she 
don't like him. I can't even try to compel her. 
She's as good a girl as ever stirred about a 
house." 

' ' I can well believe that. " 

"And nothing would take such a load off me 
as to know that she was going to be well mar- 
ried. But as she don't like the young man well 
enough, I won't have her hardly used." 

"Mrs. Masters perhaps is — hard to her." 

" God forbid I should say any thing against 
my wife. I never did, and I won't now. But 
Mary will be better away ; and if Lady Ushant 
will be good enough to take her, she shall go." 

"When will she be ready, Mr. Masters?" 

" I must ask her about that ; in a week, per- 
haps, or ten days." 

"She is quite decided against the young 
man?" 

"Quite. At the bidding of all of us she said 
she'd take two months to think of it ; but before 
the time was up she wrote to him to say it could 
never be. It quite upset my wife ; because it 
would have been such an excellent arrangement." 

Reginald wished to learn more, but hardly 
knew how to ask the father questions. Yet, as 
he had been trusted so far, he thought that he 
might be trusted altogetliei'. "I muse own," he 
said, "that I think that Mr. Twentyman would 
liai'dly be a fit husband for your daughter." 

"He is a very good young man." 

" Very likely ; but she is something more than 
a veiy good young woman. A young lady with her 
gifts will be sure to settle well in life some day." 
The attorney shook his head. He had lived long 
enough to see many young ladies with good gifts 
find it difficult to settle in life ; and perhaps that 
mysterious poem which Reginald found in Maiy's 
eyes was neither visible nor audible to Mary's fa- 



114: 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



ther. "I did hear," said Reginald, "that Mr. 
Surtees — " 

"There's nothing in that." 

"Oh, indeed. 1 thought that perhaps as she 
is so determined not to do as her friends would 
wish, that there might be something else." He 
said this almost as a question, looking close into 
the attorney's eyes as he spoke. 

"It is always possible," said Mr, Masters, 

"But you don't think there is any body?" 

"It is very hard to say, Mr. Morton." 

"You don't expect any thing of that sort?" 

Then the attorney broke forth into sudden 
confidence. "To tell the truth then, Mr. Mor- 
ton, I think there is somebody, though who it is 
I know as little as the baby unborn. She sees 
nobody here at Dillsborough to be intimate with. 
She isn't one of those wlio would write letters or 
do any thing on the sly." 

"But there is some one?" 

" She told me as much herself. That is, when 
I asked her, she would not deny it. Then I 
thought that perhaps it might be somebody at 
Cheltenham." 

"I think not." 

" She was there so short a time, Mr. Morton ; 
and Lady Ushant Would be the last person in 
the world to let such a thing as that go on with- 
out telling her parents." 

"I don't think there was any one at Chel- 
tenham. She was only there a month." 

"I did fancy that perhaps that was one rea- 
son wliy she should want to go back." 

" I don't believe it — I don't in the least be- 
lieve it," said Reginald, enthusiastically, "My 
aunt would have been sure to have seen it. It 
would have been impossible without her knowl- 
edge. But there is somebody ?" 

" I think so, Mr. Masters ; and if she does go 
to Cheltenham, perhaps Lady Ushant had better 
know." To this Reginald agreed, or half agreed. 
It did not seem to him to be of much consequence 
what might be done at Cheltenham. He felt cer- 
tain that the lover was not there. And yet who 
was there at Dillsborough ? He had seen those 
young Botseys about. Could it possibly be one of 
them ? And during the Christmas vacation the 
rector's scamp of a son had been home from Ox- 
ford, to whom Mary Masters had barely spoken. 
Was it young Mainwaring? or could it be pos- 
sible that she had tui-ned an eye of favor on Dr. 
Nupper's elegantly dressed assistant. There was 
nothing too monstrous for him to suggest to him- 
self as soon as the attoi'ney had left him. 

But there was a young man in Dillsborough 
— one man, at any rate, young enough to be a 
lover — of whom Reginald did not think ; as to 
whom, had his name been suggested as that of 
the young man to whom Mary's heart had been 
given, he would have repudiated such a sugges- 
tion with astonishment and anger. But now, 
having heard this from the girl's father, he was 
again vexed, and almost as much disgusted as 
when he had first become aware that Larry 
Twentyman was a suitor for her hand. Why 
should he trouble himself about a girl who was 
ready to fall in love with the first man that she 
saw about the place ? He tried to pacify him- 
self by some such question as this, but tried in 
vain. 



CHAPTER XLVIIL 

THE DINNER AT THE BUSH. 

HiiRE is the letter which, at his brother-in- 
law's advice, Lord Rufford wrote to Arabella : 

" Kufford, 3 February, 1S75. 
" Mr DEAR Miss Trefoil, — It is a great 
grief to me that I should have to answer your 
letter in a manner that will, I fear, not be satisfac- 
tory to you. I can only say that you have alto- 
gether mistaken me if you think that I have said 
any thing which was intended as an offer of mar- 
riage. I can not but be very much flattered by 
your good opinion. I have had much pleasure 
from our acquaintance, and I should have been 
glad if it could have been continued. But I have 
no thoughts of marriage. If I have said a word 
which has, unintentionally on my part, given 
rise to such an idea, I can only beg your pardon 
heartil}'. If I were to add more after what I 
have now said, pei-haps you would take it as an 
impertinence. Yours most sincerely, 

"Rufford." 

He had desired to make various additions and 
suggestions, which, however, had all been disal- 
lowed by Sir George Penwether. He had pro- 
posed, among other things, to ask her whether 
he should keep Jack for her for the remainder 
of the season, or whether he should send the 
horse elsewhere ; but Sir George would not al- 
low a word in the letter about Jack. ' ' You did 
give her the horse, then ?" he asked. 

"I had hardly any alternative, as the things 
went. She would have been quite welcome to 
the horse if she would have let me alone aftei'- 
ward." 

"No doubt; but when young gentlemen give 
young ladies horses — " 

" I know all about it, my dear fellow. Pray 
don't preach more than you can help. Of course 
I have been an infernal ass. I know all that. 
But as the horse is hers — " 

"Say nothing about the horse. Were she to 
ask for it, of course she could have it ; but that 
is not likely. " 

"And you think I had better say nothing 
else ?" 

" Not a word. Of course it will be shown to 
all her friends, and may possibly find its way into 
print. I don't know what steps such a young 
lady may be advised to take. Her uncle is a 
man of honor. Her father is an ass, and careless 
about every thing. , Mistletoe will not improba- 
bly feel himself bound to act as though he were 
her brother. They will, of course, all think you 
to be a rascal, and will say so." 

"If Mistletoe says so, I'll horsewhip him." 

"No you won't, Rufford. You'll remember 
that this woman is a woman, and that a woman's 
friends are bound to stand up for her. After all, 
your hands are not quite clean in the matter." 

"I am heavy enough on myself, Penwether. 
I have been a fool, and I own it. But I have 
done nothing unbecoming a gentleman." He 
was almost tempted to quarrel with his brother- 
in-law, but at last he allowed the letter to be sent 
just as Sir George had written it, and then tried 
to banish the affair from his mind for the present 
so that he might enjoy his life till the next hos- 
tile step should be taken by the Trefoil clan. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



115 



When Larry Twentyman received the lord's 
note, which was left at Chowton Fai-m by Hamp- 
ton's groom, he was in the lowest depth of deso- 
lation. He had intended to hunt that day, in 
compliance with John Morton's advice, but had 
felt himself quite unable to make the effort. It 
was not only that he had been thrown over by 
Mary Masters, but that every body knew that he 
had been thrown over. If he had kept the mat- 
ter secret, perhaps lie might have borne it ; but 
it is so hard to bear a sorrow of which all one's 
neighbors are conscious! When a man is re- 
duced by poverty to the drinking of beer instead 
of wine, it is not the loss of the wine that is so 
heavy on him as the consciousness that tho» 
around him are awai'e of the reason. And he is 
apt to extend his idea of this consciousness to a 
circle that is altogether indifferent to the fact. 
That a man should fail in his love seems to him 
to be of all failures the most contemptible, and 
Larry thought that there would not be one in the 
field unaware of his miserable I'ejection. In spite 
of his mother's prayers, he had refused to go, and 
had hung about the farm all day. 

Then there came to him Lord Rufford's note. 
It had been quite unexpected, and a month or 
two befoi'e, when his hopes had still been high in 
regard to Mary Masters, would have filled him 
with delight. It was the foible of his life to be 
esteemed a gentleman, and his poor ambition to 
be allowed to live among men of higher social 
standing than himself. Those dinners of Lord 
Rufford's at The Bush had been a special grief 
to him. The young lord had been always court- 
eous to him in the field, and he had been able, 
as he thought, to requite such courtesy by little 
attentions in the way of game- preserving. If 
pheasants from Dillsborough Wood eat Goarly's 
wheat, so did they eat Larry Twentyman's bar- 
ley. He had a sportsman's heart, above com- 
plaint as to such matters, and had always been 
neighborly to the lord. No doubt, pheasants 
and hares were left at his house whenever there 
was shooting in the neighborhood, which to his 
mother afforded great consolation. But Larry 
did not care for the pheasants and hares. Had 
he so pleased, he could have shot them on his 
own land ; but he did not preserve, and, as a 
good neighbor, he regarded the pheasants and 
hares as Lord Rufford's property. He felt that 
he was behaving as a gentleman as well as a 
neighbor, and that he should be treated as such. 
Fred Botsey had dined at The Bush with Lord 
Rufford, and Larry looked on Fred as in no way 
better than himself. 

Now at last the invitation had come. He was 
asked to a day's shooting, and to dine with the 
lord and his party at the inn. How pleasant 
would it be to give a friendly nod to Runciman 
as he went into the room, and to assert after- 
ward in Botsey's hearing something of the jovial- 
ity of the evening ! Of course Hampton would 
be there, as Hampton's servant had brought the 
note, and he was very anxious to be on friend- 
ly terms with Mr. Hampton. Next to the lord 
himself, there was no one in the hunt who car- 
ried his head so high as young Hampton. 

But there arose to him the question whether 
all this had not arrived too late ! Of what good 
is it to open up the true delights of life to a man 
when you have so scotched and wounded him 
that he has no capability left of enjoying any 



thing? As he sat lonely, with his pipe in his 
mouth, he thought for a while that he would de- 
cline the invitation. The idea of selling Chow- 
ton Farm, and of establishing himself at some 
antipodes in which the name of Mary Masters 
should never have been heard, w.is growing upon 
him. Of what use would the friendship of Loi'd 
Rufford be to him at the other side of the globe? 

At last, however, the hope of giving that 
friendly nod to Runciman overcame him, and 
he determined to go. He wrote a note, which 
caused him no little thought, presenting his com- 
pliments to Lord Rufford, and promising to meet 
his lordship's party at Dillsborough Wood. 

The shooting went off very well, and Larry 
behaved himself with propriety. He wanted the 
party to come in and lunch, and had given sun- 
dry instructions to his mother on that head. But 
they did not remain near to his place throughout 
the day, and his efforts in that direction were 
not successful. Between five and six he went 
home, and at half-past seven appeared at The 
Bush attired in his best. He never yet had sat 
down with a lord, and his mind misgave him a 
little ; but he had spirit enough to look about 
for Runciman, who, however, was not to be seen. 

Sir George was not there, but the party had 
been made up, as regarded the dinner, by the 
addition of Captain Glomax, who had returned 
from hunting. Captain Glomax was in high 
glee, having had, as he declared, the run of the 
season. When a master has been deserted on 
any day by the choice spirits of his hunt, he is 
always apt to boast to them that he had on that 
occasion the run of the season. He had taken 
a fox from Impington right across to Hogsbor- 
ough, which, as every one knows, is just on the 
borders of the U.R.U., had then run him for five 
miles into Lord Chiltern's country, and had kill- 
ed him in the centre of the Brake Hunt, after an 
hour and a half, almost without a check. "It 
was one of those straight things that one doesn't 
often see nowadays," said Glomax. 

' ' Any pace ?" asked Lord Rufford. 

"Very good, indeed, for the first forty min- 
utes. I wisli you had all been there. It was 
better fun, I take it, than shooting rabbits." 

Then Hampton put the captain through his 
facings as to time and distance and exact places 
that had been passed, and ended by expressing 
an opinion that he could have kicked his hat as 
fast on foot. Whereupon the captain begged 
him to try, and hinted that he did not know the 
country. In answer to which Hampton offered 
to bet a five-pound note that young Jack Runce 
would say that the pace had been slow. Jack 
Avas the son of the old farmer whom the Senator 
had so disgusted, and was supposed to know what 
he was about on a horse. But Glomax declined 

the bet, saying that he did not care a for 

Jack Runce. He knew as much about pace as 
any farmer, or, for the matter of that, any gen- 
tleman, in Uftbrd or Rufford, and the pace for 
forty minutes liad been very good. Nevertheless, 
all the party were convinced that the "thing" 
had been so slow that it had not been worth rid- 
ing to — a conviction which is not uncommon 
with gentlemen when they have missed a run. In 
all this discussion poor Larry took no great part, 
though he knew the country as well as any one. 
Larry had not as yet got over the awe inspired 
bv the lord in his black coat. 



IIG 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



Perhaps Larry's happiest moment in the even- 
ing Avas when Rimciman himself brought in the 
soup, for at that moment Lord Rufford put his 
hand on his shoulder and desired him to sit down 
— and Runciman both heard and saw it. And 
at dinner, when tlie Champagne had been twice 
round, he became more comfortable. The con- 
A'ersation got upon Goarly, and in reference to 
that matter he was quite at home. "It's not 
my doing," said Lord Rufford. "I have in- 
structed no one to keep him locked up." 

"It's a very good job, from all that I can 
hear," said Tom Surbiton. 

"All I did was to get Mr. Masters here to 
take up the case for me, and I learned from him 
to-day that the rascal had already agreed to take 
the money I offered. He only bargains that it 
shall be paid into his own hands, no doubt desir- 
ing to sell the attorney he has employed." 

"Bearside has got his money from the Amer- 
ican Senator, my lord," said Larry. 

"They may fight it out among tliem. I don't 
care who gets the money, or who pays it, as long 
as I'm not imposed upon." 

"We must proceed against that man Scrob- 
by," said Glomax, with all the authority of a 
master. 

"You'll never convict him on Goarly's evi- 
dence," said the lord. 

Then Larry could give them further informa- 
tion. Nickem had positively traced the purchase 
of the red herrings. An old woman in Rufford 
was ready to swear that she herself had sold them 
to Mrs. Scrobby. Tom Surbiton suggested that 
the possession of red herrings was not of itself a 
crime. Hampton thought that it was corrobora- 
tive. Captain Battersby wanted to know wheth- 
er any of the herrings were still in existence, so 
that they could be sworn to. Glomax was of 
opinion that villainy of so deep a dye could not 
have taken place in any other hunting country 
in England. 

"There's been strychnine put down in the 
Brake too," said Hampton. 

"But not in cart-loads," said the master. 

"I rather tliink," said Larry, "that Nickem 
knows where the strychnine was bought. That'll 
make a clear case of it. Hanging would be too 
good for such a scoundrel." This was said after 
the third glass of Champagne, but the opinion 
was one which was well received by the whole 
company. After that the Senator's conduct was 
discussed, and they all agreed that in the whole 
affair that was the most marvelous circumstance. 
"They must be queer people OA'er there," said 
Larry. 

"Brutes!" said Glomax. "They once tried 
a pack of hounds somewhere in one of the States, 
but they never could run a yard." 

There was a good deal of wine drunk, which 
was not unusual at Lord Rufford's dinners. Most 
of the company were seasoned vessels, and none 
of them were much the worse for what they 
drank. But the generous wine got to Larry's 
heart, and perhaps made his brain a little soft. 
Lord Rufford, remembering what had been said 
about the young man's misery, tried to console 
him by attention ; and, as the evening wore on, 
and when the second cigars had been lighted all 
round, the two were seated together in confiden- 
tial conversation at a corner of the table. 

"Yes, my lord ; I think I shall hook it," said 



Larry. " Something has occurred that has made 
the place not quite so comfortable to me ; and, 
as it is all my own, I think I shall sell it." 

"We should miss you immensely in the hunt," 
said Lord Rufford, who of course knew what the 
something was. 

"It's very kind of you to say so, my lord. 
But there are things which may make a man go." 

"Nothing serious, I hope." 

"Just a young Avoman, my lord. I don't 
AA'ant it talked about, but I don't mind mention- 
ing it to you." 

"You should neA'er let those troubles touch 
you so closely," said his lordship, Avhose OAvn 
\Kthers at this moment Avere by no means un- 
Avrung. 

"I dare say not. But if you feel it, hoAv are 
you to help it ? I shall do very Avell Avhen I get 
aAA'ay. ChoAvton Farm is not the only spot in 
the Avorld." 

" But a man so fond of hunting as you are !" 

"Well, yes. I shall miss the hunting, my 
lord— sha'n't I ? If Mr. Morton don't buy the 
place, I should like it to go to your loi-dship. 
I offered it to him first because it came from 
them." 

"Quite right. By-the-bye, I hear that Mr. 
Morton is A'ery ill." 

"So I heard," said Larry. "Nupper has 
been Avith him, I knoAV, and I fancy they have 
sent for somebody from London. I don't knoAv 
that he cares much about the land. He thinks 
more of the foreign parts he's always in. I don't 
believe Ave should fall out about the price, my 
lord." 

Then Lord Rufford explained that he aa'ouM 
not go into that matter just at present, but that 
if the place Avere in the market he Avould certain- 
ly like to buy it. He, hoAvever, did as John 
Morton had done before, and endeavored to per- 
suade the poor fellow that he should not alter 
the Avhole tenor of his life because a young lady 
Avould not look at him. 

"Good-night, Mr. Runciman," said Larry, as 
he made his Avay doAvn - stairs to the yard. 
" We've had an uncommon pleasant evening." 

"I'm glad you've enjoyed yourself, Larry." 
Larr)' thought that his Christian name from the 
hotel-keeper's lips had never sounded so offen- 
sively as on the present occasion. 



CHAPTER XLIX, 

MISS trefoil's decision. 

Lord Ruffokd's letter reached Arabella at 
her cousin's house, in due course, and was hand- 
ed to her in the morning as she came doAvn to 
breakfast. The envelope bore his crest and cor- 
onet, and she Avas sure that more than one pair 
of eyes had already seen it. Her mother had 
been in the room some time before her, and 
would of course knoAv that the letter AA'as from 
Lord Rufford. An indiscreet Avord or two had 
been said in the hearing of Mrs. Connop Green, 
as to Avhich Arabella had already scolded her 
mother most vehemently, and Mrs. Connop Green, 
too, Avould probably have seen the letter, and 
Avould know that it had come from the loA'er of 
AA'hom boasts had been made. The Connop 
Greens Avould be ready to Avorship Arabella doAvn 



THE AMEKICAN SENATOR. 



117 



to the veiy soles of her feet if she were certain- 
ly, without a vestige of doubt, engaged to be the 
wife of Lord Ruftord. But there had been so 
many previous mistakes ! And they, too, had 
heard of Mr. John Morton. They, too, were a 
little afraid of Arabella, though she was undoubt- 
edly the niece of a duke. 

She was awai-e now, as always, how much de- 
pended on her personal bearing ; but this was a 
moment of moments ! She would fain have kept 
the letter, and have opened it in the retirement 
of her own room. She knew its terrible impor- 
tance, and was afraid of her own countenance 
when she should read it. All the hopes of her 
life were contained in that letter. But were she 
to put it in her pocket, she would betray her 
anxiety by doing so. She found herself bound 
to open it and read it at once, and she did open 
it and read it. 

After all, it was what she had expected. It 
was very decided, very short, very cold, and car- 
rying with it no sign of weakness. But it Avas 
of such a letter that she had thought when she 
resolved that she would apply to Lord Mistletoe, 
and endeavor to put the whole family of Trefoil 
in arms. She had been — so she had assured 
herself — quite sure that that kind, loving re- 
sponse which she had solicited would not be given 
to her. But yet the stern fact, now that it was 
absolutely in her hands, almost overwhelmed 
her. She could not restrain the dull, dead look 
of heart-breaking sorrow which for a few moments 
clouded her face— a look which took away all her 
beauty, lengthening her cheeks, and robbing her 
eyes of that vivacity which it was the task of her 
life to assume. "Is any thing the matter, my 
dear ?" asked Mrs. Connop Green. 

Then she made a final effort — an heroic ef- 
fort. " What do you think, mamma ?^' she said, 
paying no attention to her cousin's inquirj\ 

'"What is it, Arabella?" 

" Jack got some injury that day at Peltry, and 
is so lame that they don't know whether he'll 
ever put his foot to the ground again. " 

"Poor fellow!" said Mr. Green. "Who is 
Jack ?" 

"Jack is a horse, Mr. Green; and such a 
horse that one can not but be soriy for him. 
Poor Jack ! I don't know any Christian whose 
lameness would be such a nuisance." 

"Does Lord RufFord write about his horses?" 
asked Mrs. Connop Green, thus betraying that 
knowledge as to the letter which she had obtain- 
ed from the envelope. 

"If you must know all the truth about it," 
said Arabella, " the horse is my horse, and not 
Lord Rufford's. And as he is the only horse I 
have got, and as he's the dearest horse in all the 
world, you must excuse my being a little sorry 
about him. Poor Jack!" After that the break- 
fast was eaten, and every body in the room be- 
lieved the story of the horse's lameness — except 
Lady Augustus. 

When breakfast and the loitering after break- 
fast were well over, so that she could escape with- 
out exciting any notice, she made her way up to 
her bedroom. In a few minutes — so that again 
there should be nothing noticeable — her mother 
followed her. But her door was locked. "It 
is I, Arabella," said her mother. 

"You can't come in at present, mamma. I 
am busy. " 



"But, Arabella!" 

"You can't come in at present, mamma." 
Then Lady Augustus slowly glided away to her 
own room, and there waited for tidings. 

The whole form of the girl's face was altered 
when she was alone. Her features in themselves 
were not lovely. Her cheeks and chin were 
heavy. Her brow was too low, and her upper 
lip too long. Her nose and teeth were good, and 
would have been very handsome had they be- 
longed to a man. Her complexion had always 
been good till it had been injured by being im- 
proved, and so was the carriage of her head and 
the outside lines of her bust and figure, and her 
large eyes, though never soft, could be bright 
and sparkle. Skill had done much for her, and 
continued effort almost more. But now the ef- 
fort was dropped, and that which skill had done 
turned against her. She was haggard, lumpy, 
and almost hideous, in her bewildered grief. 

Had there been a word of weakness in the 
short letter, she might have founded upon it 
some hope. It did not occur to her that he had 
had tlie letter written for him, and she was as- 
tonished at its curt strength. How could he 
dare to say that she had mistaken him ? Had 
she not lain in his arms while he embraced her ? 
How could he have found the courage to say 
that he had had no thought of marriage when 
he had declared to her that he loved her ? She 
must have known that she had hunted him as a 
fox is hunted ; and yet she believed that she was 
being cruelly ill-used. For a time all that de- 
pendence on Lord Mistletoe and her uncle de- 
serted her. What effect could they have on a 
man who would write such a letter as that? 
Had she known that the words were the words 
of his brother-in-law, even that would have given 
her some hope. 

But what should she do ? Whatever steps she 
took she must take at once. And she must tell 
her mother. Her mother's help would be neces- 
sary to her now, in whatever direction she might 
turn her mind. She almost thought that she 
would abandon him without another word. She 
had been strong in her reliance on family aid till 
the time for invoking it had come ; but now she 
believed that it would be useless. Could it be 
that such a man as this would be driven into 
marriage by the interference of Lord Mistletoe ? 
She would much like to bring down some pun- 
ishment on his head ; but, in doing so, she would 
cut all other ground from under her own feet. 
There were still open to her Patagonia and the 
Paragon. 

She hated the Paragon, and she recoiled with 
shuddering fi-om the idea of Patagonia. But as 
for hating, she hated Lord Ruflford too. And 
what was there that she loved ? She tried to 
ask herself some questions even as to that. 
There certainly was no man for whom she cared 
a straw ; nor had there been for the last six or 
eight years. Even when he was kissing her she 
was thinking of her built-up hair, of her pearl- 
powder, her paint, and of possible accidents and 
untoward revelations. The loan of her lips had 
been for use only, and not for any pleasure which 
she had, even in pleasing him. In her very 
swoon she had felt the need of being careful at 
all points. It was all labor, and all care — and, 
alas, alas ! all disappointment. 

But there was a future through which she 



118 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



must live. How might she best avoid the mis- 
fortune of poverty for the twenty, thirty, or forty 
years which might be accorded to her ? What 
did it matter whom or what she hated? The 
house-maid probably did not like cleaning grates, 
nor the butcher killing sheep, nor the seamstress 
stitching silks. She must live. And if she 
could only get away from her mother, that in it- 
self would be something. Most people were dis- 
tasteful to her, but no one so much as her moth- 
er. Here in England she knew that she was de- 
spised among the people with whom she lived. 
And now she would be more despised than ever. 
Her uncle and aunt, though she disliked them, 
had been much to her. It was something, that 
annual visit to Mistletoe, though she never en- 
joyed it when she was there. But she could 
well understand that, after such a failure as this, 
after such a game, played before their own eyes 
in their own house, her uncle and her aunt 
would drop her altogether. She had played 
this game so boldly that there was no retreat. 
V/ould it not, therefore, be better that she should 
fly altogether, 

Tiiere was a time on that morning in which 
she had made up her mind that she would write 
a most affectionate letter to Morton, telling him 
that her people had now agreed to his propo- 
sitions as to settlement, and assuring him that 
from henceforward she would be all his own. 
She did think that, were she to do so, she might 
still go with him to Patagonia. But if so, she 
must do it at once. The delay had already been 
almost too long. In that case she would not say 
a word in reply to Loi'd Rufford, and would al- 
low all that to be as though it had never been. 
Then, again, there ai'ose to her mind the remem- 
brance of Rufford Hall, of all the glories, of the 
triumph over every body. Then, again, there 
was the idea of a "forlorn-hope." She thought 
that she could have brought herself to do it, 
if only death would have been the alternative 
of success when she had resolved to make the 
rush. 

It was nearly one when she went to her moth- 
er, and even then she was undecided. But the 
joint agony of the solitude and the doubts had 
been too much for her, and she found herself 
constrained to seek a counselor. "He has 
thrown you over," said Lady Augustus, as soon 
as the door was closed. 

"Of course he has," said Arabella, walking up 
the room, and again playing her part even be- 
fore her mother. 

' ' I knew it would be so. " 

"You knew nothing of the kind, mamma, and 
your saying so is simply an untruth. It was 
you who put me up to it." 

"Arabella, that is false!" 

"It wasn't you, I suppose, who made me 
throw over Mr. Morton and Bragton." 

"Certainly not." 

" That is so like you, mamma. There isn't a 
single thing that you do or say that you don't 
deny afterward." These little compliments were 
so usual among them that at the present mo- 
ment they excited no great anger. "There's 
his letter: I suppose you had better read it." 
And she chucked the document to her mother. 

"It is very decided," said Lady Augustus. 

" It is the falsest, the most impudent, and the 
most scandalous letter that a man ever wrote to 



a woman. I could horsewhip him for it myself, 
if I could get near him ! " 

" Is it all over, Arabella ?" 

"All over! What questions you do ask, 
mamma ! No. It is not all over. I'll stick to 
him like a leech. He proposed to me as plainly 
as any man ever did to any woman. I don't care 
what people may say or think. He hasn't heard 
the last of me, and so he'll find." And thus, in 
her passion, she made up her mind that she 
would not yet abandon the hunt. 

' ' What will you do, my dear ?" 

"What will I do? How am I to say what I 
will do? If I were standing near him with a 
knife in my hand, I would stick it into his heart 
— I would ! Mistaken him ! Liar ! They talk 
of girls lying ; but what girl would lie like that ?" 

"But something must be done." 

"If papa were not such a fool as he is, he 
could manage it all for me," said Arabella, duti- 
fully. "I must see my father, and I must dic- 
tate a letter for him. Where is papa ?" 

" In London, I suppose." 

" You must come up to London with me to- 
morrow. We shall have to go to his club and 
get him out. It must be done immediately ; 
and then I must see Lord Mistletoe, and I. will 
write to the duke." 

"Would it not be better to write to your 
papa?" said Lady Augustus, not liking the idea 
of being dragged away so quickly from comfort- 
able quarters. 

"No; it wouldn't. If you won't go, I shall, 
and you must give me some money. I shall 
write to Lord Rufford too." 

And so it was at last decided, the wretched 
old woman being dragged away up to London 
on some excuse which the Connop Greens were 
not very ^rry to accept. But on that same aft- 
ernoon Arabella wrote to Lord Rufford : 

"Your letter has amazed me. I can not un- 
derstand it. It seems to be almost impossible 
that it should really have come from you. How 
can you say that I have mistaken you ? There 
has been no mistake. Surely that letter can not 
have been written by you. 

" Of course I have been obliged to tell my fa- 
ther every thing. Arabella. " 

On the following day, at about four in the aft- 
ernoon, the mother and daughter drove up to 
the door of Graham's club in Bond Street, and 
there found Lord Augustus. With considerable 
difficulty he was induced to come down from tlie 
whist-room, and was forced into the brougham. 
He was a handsome, fat man, with a long gray 
beard, who passed his whole life in eating, diink- 
ing, and playing whist, and was troubled by no 
scruples and no principles. He would not cheat 
at cards, because it was dangerous and ungen- 
tleman-like, and, if discovered, would lead to his 
social annihilation ; but as to paying money that 
he owed to tradesmen, it never occurred to him 
as being a desirable thing as long as he could get 
what he wanted without doing so. He had ex- 
pended his own patrimony and his wife's fortune, 
and now lived on an allowance made to him by 
liis brother. Whatever funds his wife might 
have, not a shilling of them ever came from him. 
When he began to understand something of the 
nature of the business on hand, he suggested 



THE AMERICAN SENATOE. 



119 



that his brother, the duke, could do what was 
desirable infinitely better than he could. "He 
won't think any thing of me," said Lord Augus- 
tus. 

"We'll make him tliink something!" said 
Arabella, sternly. "You must do it, papa. 
They'd turn you out of the club if they knew that 
you had refused." Then he looked up in the 
brougham and snarled at her. "Papa, you 
must copy the letter and sign it." 

"How am I to know the truth of it all?" he 
asked. 

"It is quite true, "said Lady Augustus. There 
was very much more of it, but at last he was 
carried away bodily, and in his daughter's pres- 
ence he did write and sign the following letter : 

"My Lord, — I have heard from my daugh- 
ter a story which has surprised me very much. 
It appears that she has been staying with you at 
Kufford Hall, and again at Mistletoe, and that 
while at the latter place you proposed marriage 
to her. She tells me, with heart-breaking con- 
cei'n, that you have noAV repudiated your own 
pi'oposition — not only once made, but repeated. 
Her condition is most distressing. She is in all 
respects your lordship's equal. As her father, I 
am driven to ask you what excuse you have to 
make, or whether she has interpreted you arigiit. 

"I have the honor to be, your very humble 
servant, Augustus Trefoil." 



CHAPTER L. 

"in these days one can't IHAKE a JLiN 
SIARRY"," 

This was going on while Lord Rufrord was 
shooting in the neighborhood of Dillsborough ; 
and when the letter was being put into its en- 
velope at the lodgings in Orchard Street, his lord- 
ship was just sitting down to dinner with liis 
guests at The Bush. At the same time John 
Morton was lying ill at Bragton — a feet of which 
Arabella was not aware. 

The letter from Lord Augustus was put into 
the post on Saturday evening; but when that 
line of action was decided upon by Arabella, she 
was aware that she must not trust solely to her 
fathei'. Various plans were fermenting in her 
brain ; all or any of which, if carried out at all, 
must be carried out at the same time and at 
once. There must be no delay, or that final 
chance of Patagonia would be gone. The lead- 
er of a forlorn-hope, though he be ever so re- 
solved to die in the breach, still makes some prep- 
aration for his escape. Among her plans, the 
first in oi'der was a resolution to see Lord Mis- 
tletoe, whom she knew to be in town. Parlia- 
ment was to meet in the course of the next week, 
and he was to move the address. There had 
been much said about all this at Mistletoe, from 
which she knew that he was in London prepar- 
ing himself among the gentlemen at the Treas- 
ury. Then she herself would write to the duke. 
She thought that she could concoct a letter that 
would move even his heart. She would tell him 
that she was a daughter of the house of Trefoil, 
and "all that kind of thing." She had it dis- 
tinctly laid down in her mind. And then there 
was another move which she would make before 



she altogether threw up the game. She would 
force herself into Lord Rufibrd's presence and 
throw herself into his arms — at his feet, if need 
be — and force him into compliance. Should she 
fail then, she, too, had an idea what a raging 
woman could do. But her first step now must 
be with her cousin Mistletoe. She would not 
write to the duke till she had seen her cousin. 

Lord Mistletoe, when in London, lived at the 
family house in Piccadilly, and thither eai'ly on 
the Sunday morning she sent a note to say that 
she especially M'ished to see her cousin, and would 
call at three o'clock on that day. The messen- 
ger brought back word that Lord Mistletoe would 
be at home, and exactly at that hour the hired 
brougham stopped at the door. Her mother had 
wished to accompany her, but she had declared 
that if she could not go alone she would not go 
at all. In that she was right ; for whatever fa- 
vor the young heir to the family honors might 
retain for his fair cousin, who was, at any rate, a 
Trefoil, he had none for his uncle's wife. She 
was shown into his own sitting-room on the 
ground -floor, and then he immediately joined 
her. "I wouldn't have you shown up-stairs," 
he said, "because I understand from your note 
that you want to see me in particular." 

" That is so kind of you." 

Lord Mistletoe was a young man about thirty, 
less in stature than his father or uncle, but with 
the same handsome, inexpressive face. Almost 
all men take to some line in life. His father 
was known as a manager of estates ; his uncle 
as a whist-player. He was minded to follow the 
steps of his grandfather, and be a statesman. 
He was eaten up by no high ambition, but lived 
in the hope that, by perseverance, he might live 
to become a useful under- secretary, and per- 
haps, ultimately, a privy seal. As he was well 
educated and laborious, and had no objection to 
sitting for five hours together in the House of 
Commons with nothing to do, and sometimes 
with very little to hear, it was thought by his 
friends that he would succeed. "And what is 
it I can do ?" he said, with that affable smile to 
which he had already become accustomed as a 
Government politician. 

"I am in great trouble," said Arabella, leav- 
ing her hand for a moment in his as she spoke. 

"I am sorry for that. What sort of trou- 
ble?" He knew that his uncle and his aunt's 
family were always short of money, and was al- 
ready considering to what extent he would go in 
granting her petition. 

" Do you know Lord RufFord ?" 

"Lord RuiFord! Yes — I know him; but 
very slightly. My fiither knows him veiy much 
better than I do." 

"I have just been at Mistletoe, and he was 
there. My story is so hard to tell. I had bet- 
ter out with it at once. Lord RufFord has asked 
me to be his wife." 

"The deuce he has! It is a very fine prop- 
erty, and quite unembarrassed." 

"And now he repudiates his engagement." 
Upon hearing this, the young lord's face became 
very long. He also had heard something of the 
past life of his handsome cousin, though he had 
always felt kindly to her. "It was not once 
only." 

"Dear me ! I should have thought your fa- 
ther would be tie proper person." 



120 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



" Papa has written ; but you knoAV what papa 
is." 

"Does the duke know of it, or my mother?" 

'• It partly went on at Mistletoe. I would tell 
you the whole story if I knew how." Then she 
did tell him her story, during the telling of which 
he sat profoundly silent. She had gone to stay 
with Lady Penwether at Lord Rufford's house, 
and then he had fii'St told her of his lore. Then 
they had agreed to meet at Mistletoe, and she 
had begged her aunt to receive her. She had 
not told her aunt at once, and her aunt had been 
angry with her because they had walked togeth- 
er. Then she had told every thing to the duch- 
ess, and had begged the duchess to ask the duke 
to speak to Lord RuiFord. At Mistletoe Lord 
Rufltbrd had twice renewed his offer, and she had 
then accepted him. But the duke had not spoken 
to him before he left the place. She owned that 
she thought the duchess had been a little hard to 
her. Of course she did not mean to complain, 
but the duchess had been angr}^ with her because 
she had hunted. And now, in answer to the 
note from herself, had come a letter from Lord 
llufFord, in which he repudiated the engagement. 
"I only got it yesterday, and I came at once to 
you. I do not think you will see your cousin 
treated in that way without raising your hand. 
You will remember that I have no brother." 

"But what can I do?" asked Lord Mistletoe. 

She had taken great trouble Avith her face, so 
that she was able to burst out into tears. She 
had on a veil, which partly concealed her. She 
did not believe in the effect of a pocket-hand- 
kerchief, but sat with her face half averted. 
" Tell him what you think about it," she said. 

"Such engagements, Arabella," he said, 
" should always be authenticated by a third par- 
ty. It is for that i-eason that a girl generally 
refers her lover to her father before she allows 
herself to be considered as engaged." 

" Think what my position has been ! I want- 
ed to refer him to my uncle, and asked the duch- 
ess." 

" My mother must have had some I'eason. 
I'm sure she must. There isn't a woman in 
London knows how such things should be done 
better than my mother, I can write to Lord 
Rufford and ask him for an explanation ; but I 
do not see what good it would do." 

" If yon were in earnest about it, he would be 
— afraid of you." 

"I don't think he would in the least. If I 
were to make a noise about it, it would only do 
you harm. You wouldn't wish all the world to 
know that he had—" 

"Jilted me! I don't care what the world 
knows. Am I to put up with such treatment as 
that, and do nothing ? Do you like to see your 
cousin treated in that way ?" 

" I don't like it at all. Lord Rufford is a 
good sort of man in his way, and has a large 
property. I wish with all my heart that it had 
come off' all right ; but in these days one can't 
make a man marry. There used to be the alter- 
native of going out and being shot at ; but that 
is over now." 

"And a man is to do just as he pleases ?" 

"I am afraid so. If a man is known to have 
behaved badly to a girl, public opinion will con- 
demn him." 

" Can any thing be worse than his treatment 



of me ?" Lord Mistletoe could not tell her that 
he had alluded to absolute knowledge, and that 
at present he had no more than her version of 
the story ; or that the world would require more 
than that, before the general condemnation of 
which he had spoken would come. So he sat in 
silence and shook his head. "And you think 
that I should put up with it quietly?" 

"I think that your father should see the man." 
Arabella shook her head contemptuously. " If 
you wish it, I will write to my mother." 

" I would rather trust it to my uncle." 

"I don't know what he could do; but I will 
write to him, if you please." 

"And you won't see Lord Ruffbrd?" 

He sat silent for a minute or two, during which 
she pressed him over and over again to have an 
interview with her recreant lover, bringing up all 
the arguments that she knew, reminding him of 
their former affection for each other, telling him 
that she had no brother of her own, and that her 
own father was worse than useless in such a mat- 
ter. A word or two she said of the nature of 
the prize to be gained, and many words as to her 
absolute right to regard that prize as her own. 
But at last he refused. "I am not the person 
to do it," he said. "Even if I were your broth- 
er, I should not be so — unless with the view of 
punishing him for his conduct; in which place 
the punishment to you would be M'orse than any 
I could inflict on him. It can not be good that 
any young lady should have her name in the 
mouths of all the lovers of gossip in the country." 

She was going to burst out at him in her an- 
ger, but before the words were out of her mouth 
she remembered herself. She could not afford 
to make enemies, and certainly not an enemy of 
him. "Perhaps, then," she said, "you had bet- 
ter tell your mother all that I have told you. I 
will write to the duke myself." 

And so she left him ; and as she returned to 
Orchard Street in the brougham, she applied to 
him ever}' term of reproach she could bring to 
mind. He was selfish, and a coward, and utter- 
ly devoid of all feeling of family honor. He was 
a prig, and unmanly, and false, A real cousin 
would have burst out into passion, and have de- 
clared himself ready to seize Lord Rufford by 
the throat and shake him into instant matrimo- 
ny. But this man, through whose veins water 
was running instead of blood, had no feeling, no 
heart, no capability for anger. Oh, what a vile 
world it was! A little help — so very little — 
would have made everything straight for her! 
If her aunt had only behaved at Mistletoe as 
aunts should behave, there would have been no 
difficulty. In her misery she thought that the 
world was more cruel to her than to any other 
person in it. 

On her arrival at home, she was astounded by 
a letter that she found there — a letter of such a 
nature that it altogether drove out of her head 
the purpose which she had of writing to the duke 
on that evening. The letter was from John IMor- 
ton, and now reached her through the lawyer, to 
whom it had been sent by private hand for im- 
mediate delivery. It ran as follows : 

' ' Deaeest Arabella, — I am very ill — so ill 
that Dr. Fanning, who has come down from 
London, has, I think, but a poor opinion of my /' 
case. He does not say that it is hopeless, and ( 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



121 



that is all. I think it right to tell you this, as 
my affection for you is what it always has been. 
If you wish to see me, you and your mother had 
better come to Bragton at once. You can tele- 
graph. I am too weak to write more. Yours 
most affectionately, 

"John Morton. 
"There is nothing infectious." 

"John Morton is dying!" she almost scream- 
ed out to her mother. 

"Dying!" 

"So he says. Oh, what an unfortunate wretch 
I am ! Every thing that touches me comes to 
grief." Then she burst out into a flood of true, 
unfeigned tears. 

"It won't matter so much," said Lady Au- 
gustus, "if you mean to write to the duke and 
go on with this other — affair." 

" Oh, mamma, how can you talk in that way ?" 

" Well, my dear ; you know — " 

"I am heartless — I know that; but you are 
ten times worse. Think how I have treated 
him ! " 

"I don't want him to die, my dear; but what 
can I say ? I can't do him any good. It is all 
in God's hands; and if he must die — why, it 
won't make so much difference to you. I have 
looked upon all that as over for a long time." 

" It is not over. After all, he has liked me 
better than any of them. He wants me to go to 
Bragton." 

" That, of course, is out of the question." 

"It is not out of the question at all. I shall 
go." 

"Arabella!" . 

"And you must go with me, mamma." 

"I will do no such thing," said Lady Augus- 
tus, to whom the idea of Bragton was terrible. 

"Indeed you must. He has asked me to go, 
and I shall do it. You can hardly let me go 
alone." 

"And what will you say to Lord Rufford ?" 

" I don't care for Lord Rufford. Is he to pre- 
vent my going where I please ?" 

"And your father — and tlie duke — and the 
duchess ! How can you go there, after all that 
you have been doing since you left ?" 

" What do I care for the duke and the duch- 
ess? It has come to that, that I care for no 
one. They are all throwing me over. That lit- 
tle wretch Mistletoe will do nothing. This man 
really loved me. He has never treated me bad- 
ly. Whether he live, or whether he die, he has 
been true to me." Then she sat and thought of 
it all. What would Lord Rufford care for her 
father's letter? If her cousin Mistletoe would 
not stir in her behalf, what chance had she with 
her uncle? And, though she had thoroughly 
despised her cousin, she had understood, and 
had unconsciously believed, much that he had 
said to her. "In these days one can't make a 
man marry!" What horrid days they were! 
But John Morton would marry her to-morrow 
if he were well, in spite of all her ill usage. Of 
course he would die, and so she would again be 
overwhelmed ; but yet she would go and see 
him. As she determined to do so, there was 
something, even in her hard, callous heart, soft- 
er than the love of money, and more human 
tlian the dream of an advantageous settlement 
in life. 



CHAPTER LI. 

THE senator's SECOND LETTER. 

In the mean time our friend the Senator, up 
in London, was very much distracted in his mind, 
finding no one to sympathize with him in his ef- 
forts, conscious of his own rectitude of purpose, 
always brave against others, and yet with a sad 
doubt in his own mind whether it could be pos- 
sible that he should always be right and every 
body around him wrong. 

Coming away from Mr. Mainwaring's dinner, 
he had almost quarreled with Jolin Morton, or 
rather John Morton had altogetlier quarreled 
with hirti. On their way back from Dillsborough 
to Bragton, the minister elect to Patagonia hsd 
told him, in so many words, that he had misbe- 
haved himself at the clergyman's house. 

"Did I say any thing that was untrue?" ask- 
ed the Senator. "Was I inaccurate in my state- 
ments? If so, no man alive will be more ready 
to recall what he has said and to ask for pardon." 

Mr. Morton endeavored to explain to him that 
it was not his statements which were at fault so 
much as the opinions based on them, and the 
language in which those opinions were given. 
But the Senator could not be made to understand 
that a man had not a right to his opinions, and 
a right also to the use of forcible language as 
long as he abstained from personalities. 

"It was extremely personal, all that you said 
about the purchase of livings," said Morton. 

"How was I to know that ?" rejoined the Sen- 
atoi'. "When, in private society, I inveigh 
against pickpockets, I can not imagine, sir, that 
there should be a pickpocket in the company." 
As the Senator said this, he was grieving in his 
heart at the trouble he had occasioned, and was 
almost repenting the duties he had imposed on 
himself; but yet his voice was bellicose and an- 
tagonistic. The conversation was carried on till 
Morton found himself constrained to say that, 
though he entertained great personal respect for 
his guest, he could not go with him again into 
society. He was ill at the time, though neither 
he himself knew it nor the Senator. On the next 
morning Mr. Gotobed returned to London with- 
out seeing his host, and, before the day w'as over, 
Mr. Nupper was at Morton's bedside. He was 
alreadj' suffering from gastric fever. 

The Senator was, in truth, unhappy, as he re- 
turned to town. The intimacy between him and 
the late Secretary of Legation at his capital had 
arisen from a mutual understanding between 
them that each was to be allowed to see the 
faults and to admire the virtues of their two 
countries, and that conversation between them 
was to be based on the mutual system. But no- 
body can, in truth, endure to be told of short- 
comings, either on his own part or on that of his 
country. He himself can abuse himself or his 
country, but he can not endure it from alien lips. 
Mr. Gotobed had hardly said a word about En- 
gland which Morton himself might not have 
said ; but such words coming from an American 
had been too much even for the guarded temper 
of an unprejudiced and phlegmatic Englishman. 
The Senator, as he returned alone to London, 
understood something of this ; and when, a few 
days later, he hetrd that the friend who had 
quarreled with him was ill, he was discontented 
with himself and sore at heart. 



122 



THE AMEKICAN SENATOR. 



But he had liis task to perform, and he meant 
to perform it to the best of his ability. In liis 
own country he had heard vehement abuse of the 
Old Country from the lips of politicians, and had 
found at the same time almost on all sides great 
social admiration for the people so abused. He 
had observed that every Englishman of distinc- 
tion was received in the States as a demigod, and 
that some Avho were not very great in their own 
land had been converted into heroes in his. En- 
glish books were read there ; English laws were 
obeyed there ; English habits were cultivated, 
often*atthe expense of American comfort. And 
yet it was the fashion among orators to speak of 
• the English as a worn-out, stupid, and enslaved 
peopfe. He was a thoughtful man, and all this 
had perplexed him ; so that he had obtained 
leave from his State and from Congress to be ab- 
sent during a part of a short session, and had 
come over determined to learn as much as he 
could. Every thing he heard, and almost every 
thing he saw, offended him at some point. And 
j'et, in the midst of it all, he was conscious that 
he was surrounded by people who claimed, and 
made good their claims to, superiority. What 
was a lord, let him be ever so rich and have ever 
so many titles ? And yet, even with such a pop- 
injay as Lord lluffbrd, he himself felt the lord- 
ship. When that old farmer at the hunt break- 
fast had removed himself and his belongings to 
the other side of the table, the Senator, though 
aware of the justice of his cause, had been keenly 
alive to the rebuke. He had expressed himself 
very boldly at the rector's house at Dillsborough, 
and had been certain that not a word of real ar- 
gument had been possible in answer to him. But 
yet he left the house with a feeling almost of 
shame, which had grown into real penitence be- 
fore he reached Bragton. He knew that he had 
already been condemned by Englishmen as ill- 
mannered, ill-conditioned, and absurd. He was 
as much alive as any man to the inward distress 
of heart which such a conviction brings with it 
to all sensitive minds. And yet he had his pm- 
pose, and would follow it out. He was already 
hard at work on the lecture which he meant to 
deliver somewhere in London before he went 
back to his home duties, and had made it known 
to the world at large that he meant to say some 
sharp things of the country he was visiting. 

Soon after his return to town, he was present 
at the opening of Parliament, Mr. Mounser 
Green, of the Foreign Office, having seen that he 
was properly accommodated with a seat. Then 
he went down to tlie election of a member of 
Parliament in the little borough of Quinborough. 
It was unfortunate for Great Britain, which was 
on its trial, and unpleasant also for the poor Sen- 
ator, who had appointed himself judge, that such 
a seat should have fallen vacant at that moment. 
Quinborough was a little town of three thousand 
inhabitants clustering round the gates of a great 
Whig marquis, which had been spared — who can 
say why ? — at the first Keform Bill, and, having 
but one member, had come out scathless from 
the second. Quinborough still returned its one 
member with something less than five hundred 
constituents ; and, in spite of household suffrage 
and the ballot, had always returned the member 
favored by the marquis. This nobleman, driven, 
no doubt, by his conscience to make some return 
to the country for the favor shown to his family, 



had always sent to Parliament some useful and 
distinguished man who, without such patronage, 
might have been unable to serve his country. 
On the present occasion, a friend of the people — ■ 
so called — an unlettered demagogue, such as is 
in England in truth distasteful to all classes, had 
taken himself down to Quinborough as a can- 
didate in opposition to the nobleman's nominee. 
He had been backed by all the sympathies of the 
American Senator, who knew nothing of him or 
his unfitness, and nothing whatever of the patri- 
otism of the marquis. But he did know what 
was the population and what the constituency 
of Liverpool, and also what Avere tliose of Quin- 
borough. He supposed that he knew what was 
the theory of representation in England, and he 
understood con-ectly that hitherto the member 
for Quinborough had been the nominee of that 
great lord. These things Avere horrid to him. 
There was, to his thinking, a fiction — more than 
a fiction, a falseness — about all this, which not 
only would, but ought to, bring the country pros- 
trate to the dust. When the working-man's can- 
didate, whose political programme consisted of 
a general disbelief in all religions, received — by 
ballot ! — only nine votes from those five hundred 
voters, the Senator declared to himself that the 
country must be rotten to the core. It was not 
only that Britons were slaves — but that they 
"hugged their chains." To the gentleman who 

assured him that the Right Honorable 

would make a much better member of Parlia- 
ment than Tom Bobster, the plasterer from 
Shoreditch, he in vain tried to prove that the 
respective merits of the two men had nothing 
to do with the question. It had been the duty 
of those five hundred voters to show to the Avorld 
that, in the exercise of a privilege intrusted to 
them for the public service, tliey had not been 
under the dictation of their rich neighbor. In- 
stead of doing so, they had, almost unanimously, 
groveled in the dust at their rich neighbor's feet. 

"There are but one or two such places left in 
all England," said the gentleman. 

"But those one or two," answered the Sena- 
tor, "were willfully left there by the Parliament 
which represented the whole nation." 

Then, quite early in the session, immediately 
after the voting of the address, a motion had 
been made by the Government of the day for 
introducing household suffrage into the coun- 
ties. No one knew the labor to Avliich the Sen- 
ator subjected himself in order that he might 
master all these peculiarities : that he might 
learn how men became members of Parliament 
and how they ceased to be so ; in Avhat degree 
the House of Commons Avas made up of differ- 
ent elements ; hoAv it came to pass that, though 
there was a House of Lords, so many loi'ds sat 
in the lower chamber. All those matters Avhich 
to ordinary educated Englishmen are almost as 
common as the breath of their nostrils, had been 
to him matter of long and serious study. And 
as the intent student, Avho has zealously buried 
himself for a Aveek among commentaries and 
notes, feels himself qualified to question Porson 
and to Be-Bentley Bentley, so did our Senator 
believe, Avhile still he Avas groping among the 
rudiments, that he had all our political intrica- 
cies at his fingers' ends. When he heard the 
arguments used for a difference of suffrage in 
the towns and counties, and found that ca'CU 



THE AMEKICAN SENATOR. 



123 



they who were proposing the change wei'e not 
ready absolutely to assimilate the two, and still 
held that rural ascendency — feudalism, as he 
called it — should maintain itself by barring a 
fraction of the House of Commons from the 
votes of the majority, he pronounced the whole 
thing to be a sham. The intention Avas, he 
said, to delude the people. 

"It is all coming," said the gentleman who 
was accustomed to argue with him in those 
days. He spoke in a sad vein, which was, in 
itself, distressing to the Senator. "Why should 
you be in such a hurry?" 

The Senator suggested that if the country 
delayed much longer this imperative task of 
putting its house in order, the roof would have 
follen in before the repaii-s were done. Then 
he found that this gentleman too avoided his 
company, and declined to sit with him any more 
in the Gallery of the House of Commons. 

Added to all this was a private rankling sore 
in regard to Goarly and Bearside. He had now 
learned nearly all the truth about Goarly, and 
had learned also that Bearside had known the 
whole when he had last visited that eminent 
lawyer's office. Goarly had deserted his sup- 
porters, and had turned evidence against Scrob- 
by, his partner in iniquity. That Goarly was a 
rascal, the Senator had acknowledged. So far 
the general opinion down in Rufford had been 
correct. But he could get nobody to see, or, at 
any rate, could get nobody to acknowledge, that 
the rascality of Goarly had had nothing to do 
with the question as he had taken it up. The 
man's right to his own land — his right to be 
protected from pheasants and foxes, from horses 
and hounds — was not lessened by the fact that 
he was a poor, ignorant, squalid, dishonest 
wretch. Mr. Gotobed had now received a bill 
from Bearside for forty-two pounds seven shil- 
lings and ninepence for costs in the case, leav- 
ing, after the deduction of fifteen pounds already 
paid, a sum of twenty-seven pounds seven shil- 
lings and ninepence stated to be still due. And 
this was accompanied by an intimation that, as 
he, Mr. Gotobed, was a foreigner soon about to 
leave the country, Mr. Bearside must request 
that his claim might be settled quite at once. 
No one could be less likely than our Senator to 
leave a foreign country without paying his bills. 
He had quarreled with Morton, who also at this 
time was too ill to have given him much assist- 
ance. Though he had become acquainted with 
half Dillsborough, there was nobody there to 
whom he could apply. Thus he was driven to 
employ a London attorney, and the London at- 
torney told him that he had better pay Bearside 
— the Senator remembering at the time that he 
would also have to pay the London attorney for 
his advice. He gave this second lawyer author- 
ity to conclude the matter, and at last Bearside 
accepted twenty pounds. When the London 
attorney refused to take any thing for his trou- 
ble, the Senator felt such conduct almost as an 
additional giievance. In his existing frame of 
mind, he would sooner have expended a few 
more dollars than be driven to think well of any 
thing connected with English law. 

It was immediately after he had handed over 
the money, in liquidation of Bearside's claim, 
that he sat down to write a further letter to his 
friend and correspondent, Josiah Scroome. His I 



letter was not written in the best of tempers ; 
but still, through it all, there was a desire to be 
just, and an anxiety to abstain from the use of 
hard phrases. The letter was as follows : 

"Fenton's Hotel, St. James's Street, London, 
"February 12tl), 18"-. 

"My deak Sir, — Since I last wrote, I have 
had much to trouble me, and little, perhaps, to 
compensate me for my trouble. I told you, I 
think, in one of my former letters that, wherever 
I went, I found myself able to say what I pleased 
as to the peculiarities of this very peculiar peo- 
ple. I am not now going to contradict what I 
said then. Wherever I go I do speak out, and 
my ej-es are still in my head, and my head is on 
my shoulders. But I have to acknowledge to 
myself that I give offense. Mr. Morton, whom 
you knew at the British Embassy in Washing- 
ton, and who, I fear, is now very ill, parted from 
me, when last I saw him, in anger because of 
certain opinions I had expressed in a clergy- 
man's house, not as being ill-founded, but as 
being antagonistic to the clergyman himself. 
This I feel to be unreasonable. And in the 
neighborhood of Mr. Morton's house, I have 
encoiratered the ill-will of a great many — not 
for having spoken untruth, for that I have nev- 
er heard alleged — but because I have not been 
reticent in describing the things which I have 
seen. 

"I told you, I think, that I had returned to 
Mr. Morton's neighborhood, with the view of 
defending an oppressed man against the power 
of the lord who was oppressing him. Unfort- 
unately for me, the lord, though a scape-grace, 
spends his money freely, and is a hospitable, 
kindly-hearted, honest fellow ; whereas the in- 
jured victim has turned out to be a wretched 
scoundrel. Scoundrel though he is, he has still 
been ill-used, and the lord, though good-natured, 
has been a tyrant. But the poor wretch has 
thrown me over, and sold himself to the other 
side, and I have been held up to ignominy by 
all the provincial newspapers. I have also had 
to pay through the nose one hundred and seven- 
ty-five dollars for my quixotism — a sum which 
I can not very well afford. This money I have 
lost solely with the view of defending the weak, 
but nobody with whom I have discussed the 
matter seems to recognize the purity of my ob- 
ject. I am only reminded that I have put my- 
self into the same boat with a rascal. 

"I feel, from day to day, how thoroughly I 
could have enjoyed a sojourn in this country if 
I had come here without any line of duty laid 
down for myself. Could I have swum with the 
stream, and have said yes or no as yes or no 
was expected, I might have reveled in generous 
hospitality. Nothing can be pleasanter than 
the houses here, if you will only be as idle as 
the owners of them. But when once you show 
them that you have an object, they become 
afraid of you. And industry, in such houses as 
I now speak of, is a crime. You are thei-e to 
glide through the day luxuriously in the house, 
or to rush through it impetuously on horseback, 
or with a gun, if you be a sportsman. Some- 
times, when I have asked questions about the 
most material institutions of the coimtry, I have 
felt that I was looked upon witli absolute loath- 
ing. This is disagi"eeable. 



124 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



"And yet I find it more easy in this country 
to sympathize with the ricli than with the poor. 
I do not here describe my own actual sympa- 
thies, but only tlie easiness with which they 
might be evoked. The rich are, at any rate, 
pleasant. The poor are very much the reverse. 
There is no backbone of mutiny in them against 
the oppression to which they are subjected, but 
only the whining of the dog that knows itself to 
be a slave, and pleads with his soft paw for ten- 
derness from liis master, or the futile growlings 
of the caged tiger who paces up and down be- 
fore his bars, and has long ago foi'gotten to at- 
tempt to break them. They are a long-suffer- 
ing race, who only now and then feel themselves 
stirred up to contest a point against their mas- 
ters on the basis of staiwation. 'We won't 
work but on such and such terms, and, if we 
can not get them, we will lie down and die.' 
That, I take it, is the real argument of a strike. 
But they never do lie down and die. If one in 
every parish, one in every county, would do so, 
then the agricultural laborers of tlie country 
might live almost as well as the farmers' pigs. 

"I was present the other day at the opening 
of Parliament. It was a very grand ceremo- 
ny, though the queen did not find herself well 
enough to do her duty in person. But the 
grandeur was every thing. A royal programme 
was read from the foot of the throne, of which 
even I knew all the details beforehand, having 
read them in the newspapers. Two opening 
speeches were then made by two young lords — 
not, after all, so very young — which sounded 
like lessons recited by school-boys. There was 
no touch of eloquence — no attempt at it. It 
was clear that either of them would have been 
afraid to attempt the idiosyncrasy of passionate 
expression. But they were exquisitely dressed, 
and had learned their lessons to a marvel. The 
flutter of the ladies' dresses, and the presence of 
the peers, and the historic ornamentation of the 
house were all very pleasant ; but they reminded 
me of a last year's nut, of which the outside ap- 
pearance has been mellowed and improved by 
time, but the fruit inside has withered away and 
become tasteless. 

" Since that I have been much interested with 
an attempt — a farther morsel of cobbling — which 
is being done to improve the representation of 
the people. Though it be but cobbling, if it be 
in the right direction, one is glad of it. I do not 
know how far you may have studied the theories 
and system of the British House of Commons ; 
but, for myself, I must own that it was not till 
the other day that I was aware that, though it 
acts together as one whole, it is formed of two 
distinct parts. The one part is sent thither from 
the towns by household suffrage ; and this, which 
may be said to be the healthier of the two, as 
coming more directly from the people, is never- 
theless disfigured by a multitude of anomalies. 
Population hardly bears upon the question. A 
town with fifteen thousand inhabitants lias two 
members, whereas another with four hundred 
thousand has only tln-ee, and another with fifty 
thousand has one. But there is worse disorder 
than this. In the happy little village of Portar- 
lington, two iiundred constituents choose a mem- 
ber among them, or have one chosen for them 
by their careful lord ; whereas in the great city 
of London something like twenty-five thousand 



registered electors only send four to Parliament. 
With this the country is presumed to be satis- 
fied. But in the counties, which by a diflferent 
system send up the other part of the House, 
there exists still a heavy property qualification 
for voting. There is, apparent to all, a necessi- 
ty for change here ; but the change proposed is 
simply a reduction of the qualification, so that 
the rural laborer, whose class is probably the 
largest, as it is the poorest, in the country, is 
still disfranchised, and will remain so, unless it 
be his chance to live within the arbitrary line 
of some so-called borough. For these bor- 
oughs, you must know, are sometimes strictly 
confined to the aggregations of houses which 
constitute the town, but sometimes stretch out 
their arms so as to include rural districts. The 
divisions, I am assured, were made to suit the 
aspirations of political magnates wlien the first 
Reform Bill was passed! What is to be ex- 
pected of a country in which such absurdities 
are loved and sheltered ? 

' ' I am still determined to express my views 
on these matters before I leave the country, and 
am, with great labor, preparing a lecture on the 
subject. I am assured that I shall not be de- 
barred from my utterances because that which I 
say is unpopular, I am told that as long as I 
do not touch her majesty or her majesty's fam- 
ily, or the Christian religion — which is only the 
second Holy of Holies — I may say any thing. 
Good taste would save me from the former of- 
fense, and my own convictions from the. latter. 
But my friend who so informs me doubts wheth- 
er many will come to hear me. He tells me that 
the serious American is not popular here, where- 
as the joker is much run after. Of that I must 
take my chance. In all this I am endeavoring 
to do a duty, feeling every day more strongh' my 
own inadequacy. Were I to follow my own 
wishes, I should return by the next steamer to 
my duties at home. 

"Believe me to be, dear sir, 

"With much sincerity, yours truly, 

"Elias Gotobed. 

" The Hon. Josinh Scroome, 125 Q Street, 
"Miuuesotii Avenue, Washuigton," 



CHAPTER LII. 

PROVIDENCE INTERFEKES. 

The battle was carried on very fiercely in Mr, 
Masters's house in Dillsborough, to the misery 
of all within it ; but the conviction gained ground 
with every one there that Mary was to be sent 
to Cheltenham for some indefinite time, Dolly 
and Kate seemed to think that she was to go, 
never to return. Six months, which had been 
vaguely mentioned as the proposed period of her 
sojourn, was to them almost as indefinite as eter- 
nity. The two girls had been intensely anxious 
for the marriage, wishing to have Larry for a 
brother, looking forward with delight to their 
share in the unrestricted plenteousness of Chow- 
ton Farm, longing to be allowed to consider 
themselves at home among the ricks and barns 
and wide fields ; but at this moment things had 
become so tragic that they were cowed and un- 
happy, not that Mary should still refuse Larry 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



125 



Tuentyman, but that she should be going away 
for so long a time. They could quarrel with 
their elder sister, while the assurance was still 
with them that she would be there to foi'give 
them ; but now that she was going away, and 
that it had come to be believed by both of them 
tliat poor Lawrence had no chance, they were 
sad and down-hearted. In all that misery the 
poor attorney had the worst of it. Mary was 
free from her step-mother's zeal and her step- 
mother's persecution, at any rate at night ; but 
the poor father was hardly allowed to sleep. 
For Mrs. Masters never gave up her game as 
altogether lost. Though she might be driven 
alternately into towering passion and prostrate 
hysterics, she would still come again to the bat- 
tle. A word of encouragement would, she said, 
bring Larry Twentyman back to his courtship, 
and that word might be spoken, if Mary's visit 
to Cheltenham were forbidden. What did the 
letter signify, or all the girl's protestations? 
Did not every body know how self-willed young 
women were, but how they could be brought 
round by proper usage? Let Mary once be 
made to understand that she would not be al- 
lowed to be a fine lady, and then she would 
marry Mr. Twentyman quick enough. But this 
"Ushanting," this journeying to Cheltenham in 
order that nothing might be done, was the very 
way to promote the disease ! This Mrs. Mas- 
ters said in season and out of season, night and 
day, till the poor husband longed for his daugh- 
ter's departure in order that that point might at 
any rate be settled. In all these disputes he 
never quite yielded. Though his heart sunk 
within him, he was still firm. He would turn 
his back to his wife, and let her run on with her 
arguments, without a word of answer, till at last 
he would bounce out of bed, and swear that if 
she did not leave him alone he would go and 
lock himself into the ofBce and sleep with his 
head on the office-desk. 

Mrs, Masters was almost driven to despair; 
but at last there came to her a gleam of hope 
most unexpectedly. It had been settled tliat 
Mary should make her journey on Friday, the 
12th of February, and that Reginald Morton 
was again to accompany her. This, in itself, 
was to Mrs. Masters an aggravation of the evil 
which was being done. She was not in the 
least afraid of Reginald Morton ; but this at- 
tendance on Mary was, in the eyes of her step- 
mother, a cockering of her up, a making a fine 
lady of her, which was in itself of all things the 
most pernicious. If Mary must go to Chelten- 
ham, why could she not go by herself, second- 
class, like any other young woman. "Nobody 
would eat her," Mrs. Masters declared. But 
Reginald was firm in his purpose of accompa- 
nying her. He had no objection whatever to 
the second-class, if Mr. Masters preferred it. 
But as he meant to make the journey on the 
same day, of course they would go together. 
Mr. Masters said that he was veiy much obliged. 
Mrs. Masters pi'otested that it was all trash from 
beginning to the end. 

Then there came a sudden disruption to all 
these plans, and a sudden renewal of her hopes 
to Mrs. Masters which, for one half day, near- 
ly restored her to good humoi'. Lady Ushant 
wrote to postpone the visit, because she herself 
had been summoned to Bragton. Her letter 



to Mary, though affectionate, was veiy short. 
Her grand-nepliew John, the head of the fam- 
ily, had expressed a desire to see her, and with 
that wish she was bound to comply. Of course, 
she said, she would see Mary at Bragton ; or, if 
that were not possible, she herself would come 
into Diilsborough. She did not know what 
might be tlie length of her visit ; but, when it 
was over, she hoped that Mary would return 
with her to Cheltenham. The old lady's letter 
to Reginald was much longer; because in that 
she had to speak of the state of John Morton's 
health, and of her surprise that she should be 
summoned to his bedside. Of course she would 
go, though she could not look forward with sat- 
isfaction to a meeting with the Honorable Mrs. 
Morton. Then she could not refrain fiom al- 
luding to the fact that, if "any thing were to 
happen " to John Morton, Reginald himself 
would be tlie Squire of Bragton. Reginald, 
when he received this, at once went over to the 
attorney's house, but he did not succeed in see- 
ing Mary. He learned, however, that they were 
all aware that the journey had been postponed. 

To Mrs. Masters it seemed that all this 
had been a dispensation of Providence. Lady 
Ushant's letter had been received on the Thurs- 
day, and Mrs. Masters at once found it expe- 
dient to communicate with Larry Twentyman, 
She was not excellent herself at the writing of 
letters, and therefore she got Dolly to be the 
scribe. Before the Thursday evening the fol- 
lowing note was sent to Chowton Farm : 

"Dear Larky, — Pray come and go to the 
club with father on Saturday. We haven't seen 
you for so long! Mother has got something to 
tell you. Your affectionate friend, 

"Dolly." 

Wlien this was received, the poor man was 
smoking his moody pipe in silence, as he roam- 
ed about his own farm-yard in the darkness of 
the night. He had not, as yet, known any com- 
fort, and was still firm in his purpose of selling 
the farm. He had been out hunting once or 
twice, but fancied that people looked at him 
with peculiar eyes. He could not ride, though 
he made one or two forlorn attempts to break 
ins neck. He did not care in the least whether 
they found or not ; and when Captain Glomax 
was held to have disgraced himself thoroughly 
by wasting an hour in digging out and then kill- 
ing a vixen, he had not a word to say about it. 
But as he read Dolly's note, there came back 
something of life into his eyes. He had for- 
sworn the club, but would certainly go when 
thus invited. He wrote a scrawl to Dolly, "I'll 
come," and, having sent it off by the messenger, 
tried to trust that there might yet be ground for 
hope. Mrs. Masters would not have allowed 
Dolly to send such a message without good rea- 
son. 

On the Friday Mrs, Masters could not abstain 
from proposing that Mary's visit to Cheltenham 
should be regarded as altogether out of the ques- 
tion. She had no new argument to offer, ex- 
cept this last interposition of Providence in her 
favor. Mr, Masters said that he did not see 
why Mary should not return with Lady Ushant. 
Various things, however, might happen. John 
Morton might die, and then who could tell wheth- 



126 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



er Lady Ushant would ever return to live at Chel- 
tenham ? In this way the short-lived peace soon 
came to an end, especially as Mrs. Masters en- 
deavored to utilize for general family purposes 
certain articles which had been purchased with 
a view to Mary's prolonged residence away from 
home. This was resented by the attorney, and 
the peace was short-lived. 

On the Saturday Larry came, to the astonish- 
ment of Mr. Masters, who was still in his office 
at half-past seven. Mrs. Masters at once got 
hold of him, and conveyed him away into the 
sacred drawing-room. "Mary is not going," 
she said. 

"Not going to Cheltenham!" 

* ' It has all been put off. She sha'n't go at 
all, if I can help it." 

"But why has it been put off, Mrs. Masters ?" 

" Lady Ushant is coming to Bragton. I sup- 
pose that poor man is dying." 

" He is very ill, certainly." 

"And if any thing happens there, who can 
say what may happen anywhere else ? Lady 
Ushant will have something else except Mary 
to think of, if her own nephew comes into all 
the property." 

"I didn't know she was such friends with the 
squire as that." 

"Well, there it is. Lady Ushant is coming 
to Bragton, and Mary is not going to Chelten- 
ham." 

This she said as though the news must be of 
vital importance to Larry Twentyman. He stood 
for a while, scratching his head as he thought of 
it. At last it appeared to him that Mary's con- 
tinual residence in Dillsborough would of itself 
hardly assist him. "I don't see, Mrs. Masters, 
that that will make her a bit kinder to me." 

"Larry, don't you be a coward, nor yet soft." 

"As for coward, Mrs. Masters, I don't 
know — " 

"I suppose you really do love the girl." 

"I do; I think I've shown that." 

"And you haven't changed your mind?" 

"Not a bit." 

"That's why I speak open to you. Don't 
you he afraid of her. "What's the letter which 
a girl like that writes ? When she gets tan- 
trums into her head, of coiu'se she'll write a let- 
ter." 

"But there's somebody else, Mrs. Masters." 

"Who says so? I say there ain't nobody — 
nobody. If any body tells you that, it's only 
just to put you off. It's just- poetry and books 
and rubbish. She wants to be a fine lady." 

" I'll make her a lady." 

"You make her Mrs. Twentyman, and don't 
you be made by any one to give it up. Go to 
the club with Mr. Masters now, and come here 
just the same as usual. Come to-morrow and 
have a gossip with the girls together, and show 
that you can keep your pluck up. That's the 
way to win her." 

Larry did go to the club, and did think very 
much of it as he walked home. He had prom- 
ised to come on the Sunday afternoon, but he 
could not bring himself to believe in that theory 
of books and poetry put forward by Mrs. Mas- 
ters. Books and poetry would not teach a girl 
like Mary to reject her suitor if she really loved 
him. 



CHAPTER LIIL 

I-ADT rSHANT AT BRAGTON. 

On the Sunday, Larry came into Dillsborough 
and had his "gossip with the girls" according to 
order; but it was not very successful. Mrs. Mas- 
ters, who opened the door for him, instructed 
him in a special whisper "to talk away just as 
though he did not care a fig for Mary." He 
made the attempt manfully, but with slight ef- 
fect. His love was too genuine, too absorbing, 
to leave with him the power which Mrs. Masters 
assumed him to have when she gave him such 
advice. A man can not walk when he has bro- 
ken his ankle-bone, let him be ever so brave in 
the attempt. Lairy's heart was so weighted that 
he could not hide the weight. Dolly and Kate 
had also received hints, and struggled hard to be 
merry. In the afternoon a walk was suggested, 
and Mary complied ; but M-hen an attempt was 
made by the younger girls to leave the lover 
and Mary together, she resented it by clinging 
closely to Dolly; and then all Larry's courage 
deserted him. Very little good was done on the 
occasion by Mrs. Masters's manceuvi-es. 

On the Monday morning, in compliance with 
a request made by Lady Ushant, Mary M'alked 
over to Bragton to see her old friend. Mrs. 
Masters had declared the request to be very un- 
reasonable. "Who is to walk five miles and 
back to see an old woman like that ?" 

To this Mary had replied that the distance 
across the fields to Bragton was only four miles, 
and that she had often walked it with her sisters 
for tlie very pleasure of the walk. 

"Not in weather like this," said Mrs. Mas- 
ters. But the day was well enough. Roads in 
February are often a little wet, but there was 
no rain falling. "I say it's unreasonable," said 
Mrs. Masters. "If she can't send a carriage, she 
oughtn't to expect it." This, coming from Mrs. 
Masters, whose great doctrine it was that young 
women ought not to be afraid of work, was so 
clearly the effect of sheer opposition that Mary 
disdained to answer it. Then she was accused 
of treating her step-mother with contempt. 

She did walk to Bragton, taking the path by 
the fields and over the bridge, and loitering for 
a few minutes as she leaned upon the rail. It 
was there, and there only, that she had seen to- 
gether the two men who between them seemed 
to cloud all her life — the man whom she loved, 
and the man who loved her. She knew now — 
she thought that she knew quite well — that her 
feelings for Reginald Morton were of such a nat- 
ure that she could not possibly become the wife 
of any one else. But had she not seen him for 
those few minutes on this spot, had he not fired 
her imagination by telling her of his desire to go 
back with her over the sites which they had seen 
together when she was a child, she would not, she 
thought, have been driven to make to herself so 
grievous a confession. In that case it might have 
been that she would have brought herself to give 
her hand to the suitor of whom all her friends 
approved. 

And then, with infinite tenderness, she thought 
of all Larry's virtues, and especially of that great 
virtue in a woman's eyes, the constancy of his 
devotion to herself. She did love him, but with 
a varied love — a love which was most earnest 
in wishing his happiness, which would have been 



THE AMEEICAN SENATOK. 



127 



desirous of the closest friendship, if only noth- 
ing more were required. She swore to herself a 
thousand times that she did not look down upon 
him because he was only a farmer, that she did 
not think herself in any way superior to him. 
But it was impossible that she should consent to 
be his wife. And then she thought of the other 
man with feelings much less kind. Why had he 
thrust himself upon her life and disturbed her? 
Why had he taught her to think herself unfit to 
mate with this lover who was her equal ? Why 
had he assured her that, were she to do so, her 
old friends would be revolted ? Why had he ex- 
acted from her a promise — a promise which was 
sacred to her — that she would not so give her- 
self away ? Yes ; the promise was certainly sa- 
cred ; but he had been cold and cruel in forcing 
it from her lips. What business was it of his ? 
Why should he have meddled with her ? In the 
shallow streamlet of her lowly life the waters 
might have glided on, slow but smoothly, had he 
not taught them to be ambitious of a rapider, 
grander course. Now they were disturbed by 
mud, and there could be no pleasure in them. 

She went on over the bridge, and round by the 
• shrubbery to the hall -door, which was opened 
to her by Mrs. Hopkins. Yes, Lady Ushant was 
there ; but the young squire was very ill, and 
his aunt was then with him. Mr. Reginald was 
in the library. Would Miss Masters be shown in 
there, or would she go up to Lady Ushant's own 
room ? Of course she replied that she would go 
upstairs, and there wait for Lady Ushant. 

When she was found by her friend, she was 
told at length the story of all the circumstances 
which had brought Lady Ushant to Bragton. 
When John Morton had first been taken ill — 
before any fixed idea of danger had occurred to 
himself or to others — his grandmother had come 
to him. Then, as he gradually became weaker, 
he made various propositions, which were all of 
them terribly distasteful to the old woman. In 
the first place, he had insisted on sending for 
Miss Trefoil. Up to this period Mary Masters 
had hardly heard the name of Miss Trefoil, and 
almost shuddered as she was at once immersed 
in all these family secrets. "She is to be here 
to-morrow," said Lady Ushp,nt. 

"Oh dear, how sad !" 

" He insists upon it, and she is coming. She 
was here before, and it now turns out that all 
the world knew that they were engaged. That 
was no secret, for every body had heard it." 

"And where is Mrs. Morton now?" Then 
Lady Ushant went on with her stor}'. The sick 
man had insisted on making his will, and had 
declaimed his purpose of leaving the property to 
his cousin Reginald. As Lady Ushant said, 
there was no one else to whom he could leave it 
with any propriety ; but this had become matter 
for bitter contention between the old woman and 
her grandson. 

"Who did she think should have it?" asked 
Mary. 

"Ah, that I don't know. That he has never 
told me. But she has had the wickedness to 
say, oh, such things of Reginald ! I knew all 
that before ; but that she should repeat them 
now is terrible. I suppose she wanted it for 
some of her own people. But it was so horri- 
ble, you know — when he was so ill! Then he 
said that he should send for me, so that what is 



left of the family might be together. After that 
she went away in anger. Mrs. Hopkins says that 
she did not even see him the morning she left 
Bragton-. " 

"She was always high-tempered," said Mary. 

"And dictatorial beyond measure. She near- 
ly broke my poor dear father's heart. And then 
she left the house because he would not shut his 
doors against Reginald's mother. And now I 
hardly know what I am to do here, or what I 
must say to this young lady when she comes to- 
morrow. " 

"Is she coming alone?" 

" We don't know. She has a mother — Lady 
Augustus Trefoil; but whether Lady Augustus 
will accompany her daughter we have not heard. 
Reginald says certainly not, or they would have 
told us so. You have seen Reginald?" 

" No, Lady Ushant. " 

" You must see him. He is here now. Think 
what a difference it will make to him." 
» "But, Lady Ushant, is he so bad?" 

"Dr. Fanning almost says that there is no 
hope. This poor j'oung woman that is coming 
— what am I to say to her? He has made his 
will. That Avas done before I came. I don't 
know why he shouldn't have sent for your fa- 
ther, but he had a gentleman down ft'om town. 
I suppose he will leave her something; but it is 
a great thing that Bragton should remain in the 
family. Oh dear, oh dear, if any one but a Mor- 
ton were to be here, it would break my heart! 
Reginald is the only one left now. He's getting 
old, and he ought to marr}^ It is so serious 
when there's an old family property." 

"I suppose he will— only — " 

"Yes; exactly. One can't even think about 
it while this poor young man is lying so ill. 
Mrs. Morton has been almost like his mother, 
and has lived upon the Bragton property, abso- 
lutely lived upon it, and now she is away from 
him because he chooses to do what he likes with 
his own. Is it not awful ? And she would not 
put her foot in the house if she knew that Regi- 
nald was here. She told Mrs. Hopkins as much, 
and she said that she wouldn't so much as write 
a line to me. Poor fellow ; he wrote it himself. 
And now he thinks so much about it. When 
Dr. Fanning went back to London yesterday, I 
think he took some message to her. " 

Mary remained there till lunch was announced, 
but refused to go down into the parlor, urging 
that she was expected home for dinner. "And 
there is no chance for Mr. Twentyman ?" asked 
Lady Ushant. Mary shook her head. "Poor 
man ! I do feel sorry for him, as every body 
speaks so well of him. Of course, my dear, I 
have nothing to say about it. I don't think 
girls should ever be in a hurry to marrj^ and if 
you can't love him — " 

" Dear Lady Ushant, it is quite settled." 

"Poor young man! But you must go and 
see Reginald." Then she was taken into the 
library, and did see Reginald. Were she to 
avoid him specially, she would tell her tale al- 
most as plainly as though she were to run after 
him. He greeted her kindly, almost affection- 
ately, expressing his extreme regret that his vis- 
it to Cheltenham should have been postponed 
and a hope that she would be much at Bragton. 
"The distance is so great, Reginald," said Lady 
Ushant. 



128 



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" I can drive her over. It is a long walk, and 
I had made up my mind to get Runciman's lit- 
tle phaeton. I shall order it for to-mori-ow if 
Miss Masters will come." But Miss Masters 
would not agree to this. She would walk over 
again some day, as she liked the walk; but no 
doubt she would only be in the way if she were 
to come often. 

"I have told her about Miss Trefoil," said 
Lady Ushant. "You know, my dear, I look 
upon you almost as one of ourselves, because 
you lived here so long. But perhaps you had 
better postpone coming again till she has gone." 

" Certainly, Lady Ushant." 

" It might be difficult to explain. I don't 
suppose she will stay long. Perhaps she will go 
back the same diiy. I am sure I sha'n't know 
what to say to her. But wlien any thing is fix- 
ed, I will send you in word by the postman." 

Reginald would have walked back M'ith her 
across the bridge, but that he had promised to 
go to his cousin immediately after lunch. As it 
was, he offered to accompany her a part of the 
way, but was stopped by his aunt, greatly to 
Mary's comfort. He was now more beyond her 
reach than ever — more utterly removed from her. 
He would probably become Squire of Bragton, 
and she, in her earliest days, had heard the late 
squire spoken of as though he were one of the 
potentates of the earth. She had never thought 
it possible ; but now it was less possible than 
ever. There was something in his manner to 
her almost protective, almost fatherly — as though 
he had some authority over her. Lady Ushant 
had authority once, but he had none. In ev- 
ery tone of his voice she felt that she heard an 
expression of interest in her welfare, but it was 
the interest which a grown-up person takes in a 
child, or a superior in an inferior. Of course he 
was her superior, but yet the tone of his voice 
was distasteful to her. As she walked back to 
Dillsborough, she told herself that she would not 
go again to Bragton without assuring herself 
that he was not there. 

When she reached home, many questions were 
asked of her, but she told nothing of the secrets 
of the Morton family which had been so openlj' 
confided to her. She would only say that she 
was afraid that Mr. John Morton was very ill. 



CHAPTER LIV. 

ae.4:bella again at bragton. 

Arabella Trefoil had adhered without 
flinching to the purpose she had expressed of 
going down to Bragton to see the sick man. 
And yet at that very time she was in the midst 
of her contest with Lord Rufford. She was 
aware that a correspondence was going on be- 
tween her father and the young lord, and that 
her father had demanded an interview. She was 
aware also that the matter had been discussed 
at the family mansion in Piccadilly, the duke 
having absolutely come up to London for the 
purpose, and that the duke and his brother, who 
hardly ever spoke to each other, had absolutely 
had a conference. And this conference had had 
results. The duke had not absolutely consented 
to interfere, but had agreed to a compromise pro- 
posed by his son. Lord Augustus should be au- 



thorized to ask Lord Rufford to meet him in the 
library of the Piccadilly mansion, so that there 
should be some savor of the dukedom in what 
might be done and said there. Lord Rufford 
would, by the surroundings, be made to feel that 
in rejecting Arabella he was rejecting the duke 
and all the May-fair belongings, and that in ac- 
cepting her he would be entitled to regard him- 
self as accepting them all. But, by allowing thus 
much, the duke would not compromise himself, 
nor the duchess, nor Lord Mistletoe. Lord Mis- 
tletoe, with that prudence which will certainlj-, 
in future years, make him a useful assistant to 
some minister of the day, liad seen all tliis, and 
so it had been arranged. 

But, in spite of these doings, Arabella had in- 
sisted on complying with John Morton's wish 
that she go down and visit him in his bed at 
Bi'agton. Her mother, who in these days was 
driven almost to desperation by her daughter's 
conduct, tried her best to prevent the useless 
journey, but tried in vain. "Then," she said in 
wrath to Arabella, "I will tell your father, -and 
I will tell the duke, and I will tell Lord Rufford 
that they need not trouble themselves any fur- 
ther." 

"You know, mamma, that yoit will do noth- 
ing of the kind," said Arabella. And the poor 
woman did do nothing of the kind. "What is 
it to them whether I see the man or not?" the 
girl said. "They are hot such fools as to sup- 
pose that because Lord Rufford has engaged 
himself to me now, I was never engaged to any 
one before. There isn't one of them doesn't 
know that you had made up an engagement be- 
tween us, and had afterward tried to break it 
off." 

"When she heard this, the unfortunate moth- 
er raved, but she raved in vain. She told her 
daughter that she would not supply her with 
money for the expenses of her journey, but her 
daughter replied that she would have no difficul- 
ty in finding her way to a pawn-shop. "What 
is to be got by it?" asked the unfortunate mother. 

In reply to this Arabella would say, "Mam- 
ma, you have no heart — absolutely none. You 
ought to manoeuvre better than you do, for your 
feelings never stand,in your way for a moment." 

All this had to be borne, and the old woman 
was forced at last not only to yield, but to prom- 
ise that she would accompany her daughter to 
Bragton. "I know how all this will end," she 
said to Arabella. "You will have to go your 
way, and I must go mine." 

"Just so," replied the daughter, "I do not 
often agree with you, mamma ; but I do there 
altogether." 

Lady Augustus was absolutely at a loss to un- 
derstand what were the motives and what the 
ideas which induced her daughter to take the 
journey. If the man were to die, no good could 
come of it. If he were to live, then surely that 
love which had induced him to make so foolish 
a petition would suffice to insure the marriage, 
if the marriage should then be thought desira- 
ble. But, at the present moment, Arabella was 
still hot in pursuit of Lord Rufford, to whom 
this journey, as soon as it should be known to 
him, would give the easiest mode of escape ! 
How would it be possible that they two should 
get out at the Dillsborough Station and be taken 
to Bragton, Avithout all Rufford knowing it. Of 



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129 



course there would be hymns sung in praise of 
Arabella's love and constancy, but such hymns 
would be absolutely ruinous to her. It was 
growing clear to Lady Augustus that her daugh- 
ter was giving up the game and becoming fran- 
tic, as she thought of her age, her failure, and her 
future. If so, it would be well that they should 
separate. 

On the day fixed, a close carriage awaited 
them at the Dillsborough Station. They arrived 
both dressed in black, and both veiled, and with 
but one maid between them. This arrangement 
had been made with some vague idea of escap- 
ing scrutiny, rather than from economy. They 
had never hitherto been known to go anywhere 
without one apiece. There were no airs on the 
station now, as on that former occasion, no loud 
talking; not even a word spoken. Lady Augus- 
tus was asking herself why, why she should have 
been put into so lamentable a position, and Ara- 
bella was endeavoring to think what she would 
say to the dying man. 

She did not think that he was dying. It was 
not the purport of her present visit to strength- 
en her position by making certain of the man's 
hand, should he live. When she said that she 
was not as yet quite so hard-hearted as her 
mother, she spoke the truth. Something of re- 
gret, something of penitence, had at times crept 
over her in reference to her conduct to this man. 
He had been very unlike others on whom she 
had played her arts. None of her lovers, or 
mock lovers, had been serious and stern and 
uncomfortable as he. There had been no other 
who had ever attempted to earn his bread. To 
her the butterflies of the world had been all in 
all, and the working bees had been a tribe apart, 
with which she Avas no more called upon to mix 
than is my lady's spaniel with the kennel-hounds. 
But the chance had come. She had consented 
to exhibit her allurements before a man of busi- 
ness, and the man of business had at once sat at 
her feet. She had soon repented, as the reader 
has seen. The alliance had been distasteful to 
her. She had found that the man's ways were 
in no wise like her ways, and she had found also 
that, were she to become his wife, he certainly 
would not change. She had looked about for a 
means of escape, but, as she did so, she had rec- 
0Dgnized tlie man's truth. No doubt he had been 
ditferent from the others, less gay in his attire, 
less jocund in his words, less given to flattery 
and sport and gems, and all the little wicked- 
nesses which she had loved. But they, those 
others, had, one and all, struggled to escape from 
her. Through all the gems and mirth and flat- 
tery there had been the same purpose. They liked 
the softness of her hand, they liked the flutter of 
her silk, they liked to have whispered in their 
ears the bold words of her practiced raillery. 
Each liked for a month or two to be her special 
friend. But then, after that, each had deserted 
her, as had done the one before ; till in each new 
alliance she felt that such was to be her desti- 
ny, and that she was rolling a stone which would 
never settle itself, straining for waters which 
would never come lip-high. But John Morton, 
after once saying that he loved her, had never 
tired, had never wished to escape. He had been 
so true to his love, so true to his word, that he 
had borne from her usage which would Iiave ful- 
ly justified escape, had escape been to his taste. 
9 



But to the last he had really loved her, and now, 
on his death-bed, he had sent for her to come to 
him. She would not be coward enough to re- 
fuse his request. " Should he say any thing to 
you about his will, don't refuse to hear him, be- 
cause it ma\' be of the greatest importance," Lady 
Augustus whispered to her daughter as the car- 
riage was driven up to the front door. 

It was then four o'clock ; and it was under- 
stood that the two ladies were to stay that one 
night at Bragton, a letter having been received 
by Lady Ushant that morning informing her that 
the mother as well as the daughter was coming. 
Poor Lady Ushant was almost beside herself, not 
knowing what she would do with the two wom- 
en, and having no one in the house to help her. 
Sometliing she had heard of Lady Augustus, but 
chiefly from Mrs. Hopkins, who certainly had not 
admired her master's future mother-in-law. Nor 
had Arabella been popular; but of her Mrs. Hop- 
kins had only dared to say that she was very hand- 
some, and "a little upstartish." How she was 
to spend the evening with them Lady Ushant 
could not conceive, it having been decided, in ac- 
cordance with the doctor's orders, that the inter- 
view should not take place till tlie next morning. 
When they were shown in. Lady Ushant stood just 
within the drawing-room door and muttered a 
few words as she gave her hand to each. 

"How is he?" asked Arabella, throwing up 
her veil boldly, as soon as the door was closed. 

Lady Ushant only shook her head. 

"I knew it would be so. It is always so with 
any thing I care for. " 

"She is so distressed, Lady Ushant," said the 
mother, "that she hardly knows what she does." 
Arabella shook her head. "It is so. Lady 
Ushant." 

"Am I to go to him now?" said Arabella. 
Then the old lady explained the doctor's orders, 
and ofi^ered to take them to their rooms. " Per- 
haps I might say a word to you alone ? I will 
stay here, if you will go with mamma." And she 
did stay till Lady Ushant came down to her. 
"Do you mean to say it is certain," she asked — 
" certain that he must — die?" 

"No ; I do not say that." 

"It is possible that he may recover?" 

' ' Certainly it is possible. . What is not possi- 
ble with God ?" 

"Ah! that means that he will die." Then 
she sat down and, almost unconsciously, took 
oflf her bonnet and laid it aside. Lady Ushant, 
then looking into her face for the first time, was 
at a loss to understand what she had heard of 
her beauty. Could it be the same girl of whom 
Mrs. Hopkins had spoken, and of whose brill- 
iant beauty Reginald had repeated what he had 
heard ? She was haggard, almost old, with black 
lines round her eyes. There was nothing soft or 
gracious in the tresses of her hair. When Lady 
Ushant had been young, men had liked hair such 
as was that of Mary Masters. Arabella's yellow 
locks — whencesoever they might have come — 
were rough and uncombed. But it was the look 
of age, and the almost masculine strength of the 
lower face which astonished Lady Ushant the 
most. " Has he spoken to you about me ?" she 
said. 

" Not to me." Then Lady Ushant went on to 
explain that though she was there now as the fe- 
male representative of the family, she had never 



130 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



been so intimate with John Morton hs to admit 
of such confidence as that suggested. 

"I wonder whether he can love me, "said the 
girl. 

- " Assuredly he does, Miss Trefoil. Why else 
shoukl lie send for you ?" 

"Because he is an honest man. I hardly 
think that he can love me much. He was to 
have been my husband, but he will escape that. 
If I thought that he would live, I would tell him 
that he was free. " 

" He would not want to be — free." 

"He ought to want it. I am not fit for him. 
I have come here. Lady Ushant, because I want 
to tell him the truth." 

"But you love him ?" Arabella made no an- 
swer, but sat looking steadily into Lady Ushant's 
face. " Surely you do love him." 

" I do not know. I don't think I did love 
him, though now I may. . It is so horrible that 
he should die, and die while all this is going on. 
That softens one, you know. Have you ever 
heard of Lord Rufford ?" 

"Lord Rufford — the young man?" 

"Yes; the young man." 

"Never particularly. I knew his father." 

" But not this man ? Mr. Morton never spoke 
to yon of him." 

"Not a word." 

"I have been engaged to him since I became 
engaged to your nephew." 

"Engaged to Lord Rufford — to marry him?" 

"Yes — indeed." 

" And will you marry him?" 

' ' I can not say. I tell you this, Lady Ushant, 
because I must tell somebody in this house. I 
have behaved very badly to Mr. Morton, and Lord 
Rufford is behaving as badly to me." 

"Did John know of this ?" 

" No ; but I meant to tell him. I determined 
that I would tell him, had he lived. When he 
sent for me, I swore that I would tell him. If he 
is dying, how can I say it ?" Lady Ushant sat 
bewildered, thinking over it, understanding noth- 
ing of the world in which this girl had lived, and 
not knowing now how things could have been 
as she described them. It was not as yet three 
months since, to her knowledge, this young wom- 
an had been staying at Bragton as the affianced 
bride of the owner of the house — staying there 
with her own mother and his grandmother — and 
now she declared that since that time she had 
become engaged to another man, and that that 
other man had already jilted her ! And yet she 
was here, that she might make a death-bed part- 
ing with the man who regarded himself as her 
affianced husband. "If lAvere sure that he were 
dying, why should I trouble him ?" she said 
again. 

Lady Ushant found herself utterly unable to 
give any counsel to such a condition of cir- 
cumstances. Why should she be asked? This 
young woman had her mother with her. Did 
her mother know all this, and nevertheless bring 
her daughter to the house of a man who had 
been so treated? "I really do not know what 
to say," she replied at last. 

"But I was determined that I would tell some 
one. I thought that Mrs. Morton would have 
been here." Lady Ushant shook her head/ "I 
am glad she is not, because she was not civil to 
me when I was here before. She would have 



said hard things to me, though not, perhaps, 
harder than I have deseiTed. 1 suppose I may 
still see him to-morrow." 

" Oh yes ; he expects it." 

"I shall not tell him now. I could not tell 
him if I thought he were dying. If he gets bet- 
ter, you must tell him all." 

"I don't think I could do that, Miss Trefoil," 

"Pray do — pray do, I call upon you to tell 
him every thing." 

" Tell him that you will be married to Lord 
Rufford ?" 

" No ; not that. If Mr. Morton were well to- 
morrow, I would have him, if he chose to take 
me after what I have told you." 

" You do love him, then ?" 

"At any rate, I like no one better." 

" Not the young lord?" 

"No! why should I like him? He does not 
love me. I hate him. I would marry Mr. Mor- 
ton to-morrow, and go Avith him to Patagonia, 
or anywhere else, if he would have me after 
hearing what I have done." Then she rose from 
her chair ; but before she left the room she said 
a word further. "Do not speak to my mother 
about this. Mamma knows nothing of my pur- 
pose. Mamma only wants me to marry Lord 
Rufford, and to throw Mr. Morton over. Do 
not tell any one else. Lady Ushant ; but if he 
is ever well enough, then you must tell him." 
After that she went, leaving Lady Ushant in the 
room astounded by the story she had heard. 



CHAPTER LV. 

"l HAVE TOLD HIM EVEKY THING." 

That evening was very long and very sad to 
the three ladies assembled in the drawing-room 
at Bragton Park ; but it was probably more so 
to Lady Augustus than the other two. She 
hardly spoke to either of them, nor did they to 
her; while a certain amount of convei^sation in 
a low tone was carried on between Lady Ushant 
and Miss Trefoil. When Arabella came down 
to dinner, she received a message from the sick 
man. He sent his love, and would so willingly 
have seen her instantly, only that the doctor 
would not allow it. But he was so glad, so very* 
glad, that she had come! This Lady Ushant 
said to her in a whisper, and seemed to say it as 
though she had not heard a word of that fright- 
ful story which had been told to her not much 
more than an hour ago. Arabella did not utter 
a word in reply, but put out her hand secretly, 
as it were, and grasped that of the old lady, to 
whom she had told the tale of her later intrigues. 
The dinner did not keep them long, but it was 
very grievous to them all. Lady Ushant might 
have made some effort to be at least a complai- 
sant hostess to Lady Augustus, had she not heard 
this story, had she not been told that the wom- 
an, knowing her daughter to be engaged to John 
Morton, had wanted her to marry Lord Rufford. 
The story, having come from the lips of the girl 
herself, had moved some pity in the old woman's 
breast in regard to her ; but for Lady Augustus 
she could feel nothing but horror. 

In the evening Lady Augustus sat alone, not 
even pretending to open a book or to employ her 
fingers. She seated herself on one side of the 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



;131 



fire, with a screen in her hand, turning over such 
thoughts in her mind as were perhaps customary 
to her. Would there ever come a period to her 
misery, an hour of release in which she might 
be in comfort ere she died ? Hitherto, from one 
year to another, from one decade to the follow- 
ing, it had all been struggle and misery, con- 
tumely and contempt. She thought that she 
had done her duty by her child, and her child 
hated and despised her. It was but the other 
day that Arabella had openly declared that, in 
the event of her marriage, she would not have 
her mother as a guest in her own house. There 
could be no longer hope for triumph and glory ; 
but how might she find peace, so that she might 
no longer be driven hither and thither by this 
ungrateful tyrant child ? Oh, how hard she had 
worked in the world, and how little the world 
had given her in return ! 

Lady Ushant and Arabella sat at the other 
side of the fire, at some distance from it, on a 
sofa, and carried on a fitful conversation in whis- 
pers, of which a word would now and then reach 
the ears of the wretched mother. It consisted 
chiefly of a description of the man's illness, and 
of the different sayings which had come from the 
doctors who had attended him. It was marvelous 
to Lady Augustus, as she sat there listening, that 
her daughter should condescend to take an in- 
terest in such details. What could it be to her 
now how the fever had taken him, or why, or 
when ? On the very next day — the very morn- 
ing on which she would go and sit — ah, so use- 
lessly — by the dying man's bedside, her father 
was to meet Lord RufFord at the ducal mansion 
in Piccadilly, to see if any thing could be done in 
that quarter ! It was impossible that she should 
really care whether John Morton's lease of life 
was to be computed at a week's purchase or at 
that of a month ! And yet Arabella sat there 
asking sick-room questions, and listening to sick- 
room replies, as though her very nature had been 
changed. Lady Augustus heard her daughter 
inquire what food the sick man took, and then 
Lady Ushant at great length gave the list of his 
nourishment. What sickening hypocrisy ! thought 
Lady Augustus. 

Lady Augustus must have known her daugh- 
ter well; and yet it was not hypocrisy. The 
girl's nature, which had become thoroughly evil 
from the treachery it had received, was not alter- 
ed. Such sudden changes do not occur more fre- 
quently than other miracles. But zealously as she 
had practiced her arts, she had not as yet prac- 
ticed them long enough not to be cowed by cer- 
tain outward circumstances. There were mo- 
ments when she still heard, in iier imagination, 
the sound of that horse's foot as it struck the 
skull of the unfortunate fallen rider; and now 
the purport of the death of this man, whom she 
had known so intimately, and who had behaved 
so well to her — to whom her own conduct had 
been so foully false — for a time brought her back 
to humanitj'. But Lady Augustus had got be- 
yond that, and could not at all understand it. 

By nine they had all retired for the night. It 
was necessary that Lady Ushant should again 
visit her nephew, and the mother and daughter 
went to their own rooms. "I can not in the 
least make out what you are doing," said Lady 
Augustus, in her most severe voice. 

' ' I dare sa}' not, mamma, " 



"I have been brought here at a terrible sac- 
rifice — " 

"Sacrifice! What sacrifice? You are as well 
here as anywhere else." 

"I say I have been brought here at a terrible 
sacrifice for no purpose whatever. What use is 
it to be ? And then you pretend to care what 
this poor man is eating and drinking, and what 
physic he is taking, when, the last time you were 
in his company, you wouldn't so much as look 
at him for fear you should make another man 
jealous." 

" He was not dying then." 

"Pshaw!" 

" Oh yes. I know all that. I do feel a little 
ashamed of myself when I am almost ci-ying for 
him." 

"As if you loved him !" 

" Dear mamma, I do own that it is foolish. 
Having listened to you on these subjects for a 
dozen years at least, I ought to have got rid of 
all that. I don't suppose I do love him. Two 
or three weeks ago I almost thought I loved 
Lord Rufford, and now I am quite sure that I 
hate him. But if I heard to-morrow that he 
had broken his neck out hunting, I ain't sure but 
what I should feel something. But he would not 
send for me as this man has done. " 

"It was very impertinent." 

"Perhaps it was ill-bred, as he must have sus- 
pected something as to Lord RufFord. However, 
we are here now." 

"I will never allow you to drag me anywhere 
again." 

" It will be for yourself to judge of that. If 
I want to go anj-where, I shall go. What's the 
good of quarreling? You know that I mean to 
have my way." 

The next morning neither Lady Augustus nor 
Miss Trefoil came down to breakfast, but at ten 
o'clock Arabella was ready, as appointed, to be 
taken into the sick man's bedroom. She was 
still dressed in black, but had taken some trou- 
ble with her face and hair. She followed Lady 
Ushant in, and, silently standing by the bedside, 
put her hand upon that of John Morton, which 
was lying outside on the bed. "I will leave you 
now, John," said Lady Ushant, retiring, "and 
come again in half an hour." 

" When I ring," he said. 

"You mustn't let him talk for more than 
that," said the old lady to Arabella, as she went. 

It was more than an hour afterward when 
Arabella crept into her mother's room, during 
which time Lady Ushant had twice knocked 
at her nephew's door, and had twice been sent 
away. " It is all over, mamma!" she said. 

Lady Augustus looked into her daughter's 
eyes, and saw that she had really been weeping. 
"All over!" 

"I mean for me and you. We have only got 
to go away." 

"Will he— die?" 

"It will make no matter, though he should 
live forever. I have told him every thing. I 
did not mean to do it, because I thought that he 
would be weak ; but he has been strong enough 
for that." 

" What have you told him ?" 

"Just eveiy thing — about you and Lord Ruf- 
ford and myself — and what an escape he had 



132 



THE AMERICAN SENATOE. 



had not to marry me. He imderstands it all 
now. " 

"It is a great deal more than I do.^ 

"He knows that Lord Rufford has been en- 
gaged to me." Slie clung to this statement so 
vehemently that she had really taught herself to 
believe that it was so. 

"Well!" 

" And he knows also how his lordship is be- 
having to me. Of course he thinks that I have 
deserved it. Of course I have deserved it. We 
have nothing to do now but to go back to Lon- 
don." 

"You haA'e brought me here all the way for 
that." 

"Only for that! As the man was dying, I 
thought that I would be honest just for once. 
Now that I have told him, I don't believe that 
he will die. He does not look to be so very ill. " 

" And you have thrown away that chance !" 

"Altogether. You didn't like Bragton, you 
know, and therefore it can't matter to you." 

"Like it!" 

' ' To be sure, you would have got lid of me, 
had I gone to Patagonia, But he will not go to 
Patagonia now, even if he gets well ; and so there 
was nothing to be gained. The carriage is to be 
here at two to take us to the station, and you may 
as well let Judith come and put the things up." 

Just before they took their depai'ture Lady 
Ushant came to Arabella, saying that Mr. Mor- 
ton wanted to speak one other word to her before 
she went. So she returned to the room, and was 
again left alone at the man's bedside. "Ara- 
bella," he said, "I thought that I would tell you 
tliat I have' forgiven every thing." 

"How can you have forgiven me? There are 
things which a man can not forgive." 

" Give me your hand," he said, and she gave 
him her hand. "I do forgive it all. Even should 
I live, it would be impossible that we should be 
man and wife." 

"Oh yes." 

"But, nevertheless, I love you. Try — try to 
be true to some one." 

"There is no truth left in me, Mr. Morton. 
I should not dishonor my husband if I had one, 
but still I should be a curse to him. I shall 
marry some day, I suppose, and I know it will be 
so. I wish I could change with you, and die." 

"You are unhappy now." 

"Indeed I am. I am always unhappy. I do 
not think )^ou can tell what it is to be so wretch- 
ed. But I am glad that you have forgiven me." 
Then she stooped down and kissed his hand. As 
she did so, he touched her brow with his hot lips, 
and then she left him again. Lady Ushant was 
waiting outside the door. "He knows it all," 
said Arabella. " You need not trouble yourself 
with tlie message I gave you. The carriage is at 
the door. Good-bye. You need not come down. 
Mamma will not expect it." 

Lady Ushant, hardly knowing how she ought 
to behave, did not go down. Lady Augustus 
and her daughter got into Mr. Runciman's car- 
riage without any farewells, and Avere driven 
back from the park to the Dillsborough Station. 
To poor Lady Ushant the whole thing had been 
very terrible. She sat silent and unoccupied the 
whole of that evening, wondei'ing at the horror 
of such a history. This girl had absolutely dared 
to tell the dying man all her own disgrace, and 



had traveled down from London to Bragton with 
the purpose of doing so ! When next she crept 
into the sick-room, she almost expected that her 
nephew would speak to her on the subject ; but 
he only asked whether that sound of wheels which 
he heard beneath his window had come from the 
carriage which had taken them away, and then 
did not say a further word of either Lady Augus- 
tus or her daughter. 

"And what do you mean to do now?" said 
Lady Augustus, as the train approached the Lon- 
don terminus. 

"Nothing." 

" You have given up Lord Rufford ?" 

"Indeed I have not." 

" Your journey to Bragton will hardly help 
you much with him." 

"I don't want it to help me at all. What 
have I done that Lord Rufford can complain of? 
I have not abandoned Lord Rufford for the sake 
of Mr. Morton. Lord Rufford ought only to be 
too proud if he knew it all." 

" Of course he could make use of such an es- 
capade as this ?" 

"Let him try. I have not done with Lord 
Rufford yet, and so I can tell him. I shall be 
at the duke's in Piccadilly to-morrow morning. " 

" That will be impossible, Arabella." 

" They shall see whether it is impossible. I 
have got beyond caring very much what people 
say now. I know the kind of way papa would 
be thrown over if there is no one there to back 
him. I shall be there, and I will ask Lord Ruf- 
ford to his face whether we did not become en- 
gaged when we were at Mistletoe." 

"They won't let you in." 

"I'll find a way to make my way in. I shall 
never be his wife. I don't know that I want it. 
After all, what's the good of living with a man 
if you hate each other — or living apart, like you 
and papa?" 

"He has an income enough for any thing!" 
exclaimed Lady Augustus, shocked at her daugh- 
ter's apparent blindness. 

"It isn't that I'm thinking of; but I'll have my 
revenge on him. Liar ! To write and say that 
I had made a mistake ! He had not the cour- 
age to get out of it when we were together ; but 
when he had run away in the night, like a thief, 
and got into his own house, then he could write 
and say that I had made a mistake! I have 
sometimes pitied men when I have seen girls 
hunting them down; but, upon my word, they 
deserve it." This renewal of spirit did some- 
thing to comfort Lady Augustus. She had be- 
gun to fear that her daughter, in her despair, 
would abandon altogether the one pursuit of her 
life ; but it now seemed that there was still some 
courage left for the battle. 

That night nothing more was said, but Ara- 
bella applied all her mind to the present condi- 
tion of her circumstances. Should she, or should 
she not, go to the house in Piccadilly on the fol- 
lowing morning? At last she determined that 
she would not do so, believing that, should her 
father fail, she might make a better opportunity 
for herself afterward. At her uncle's house she 
would hardly have known where or how to wait 
for the proper moment of her appearance. " So 
you are not going to Piccadilly," said her mother 
on the following morning. 

"It appears not," said Arabella. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



133 



CHAPTER LVI. 
"now what have you got to say?" 

It may be a question whether Lord Augustus 
Trefoil or Lord RufFord looked forward to the 
interview which was to take place at the duke's 
mansion with the greater dismay. The unfortu- 
nate father, whose only principle in life had been 
that of avoiding trouble, would have rather that 
his daughter should have been jilted a score of 
times than that he should have been called upon 
to interfere once. There was in this demand 
upon him a breach of a silent but well-under- 
stood compact. His wife and daughter had been 
allowed to do just what they pleased, and to be 
free of his authority, upon an understanding that 
they were never to give him any trouble. She 
might iiave married Lord RufFord, or Mr. Mor- 
ton, or any other man she might have succeeded 
in catching, and he would not have troui)led her 
eitlier before or after her marriage. But it was 
not fair that he should be called upon to inter- 
fere in her f\iilures. And what was he to say to 
this young lord? Being fat and old and ple- 
thoric, he could not be expected to use a stick 
and thrash the young lord. Pistols were gone — 
a remembrance of which fact perhaps afforded 
some consolation. Nobod}' now need be afraid 
of any body, and the young lord would not be 
afraid of him. Arabella declared that there had 
been an engagement. The young lord would, of 
course, declare that there had been none. Upon 
the whole, he was inclined to believe it most 
probable that his daughter was lying. He did 
not think it likely that Lord Rufford should have 
been such a fool. As for taking Lord RufFord 
by the back of his neck and shaking him into 
matrimony, he knew that that would be alto- 
gether out of his power. And then the hour was 
so wretchedly early. It was that little fool Mis- 
tletoe who had named ten o'clock — a fellow who 
took parliamentary papers to bed with him, and 
had a blue-book brought to him every morning 
at half-past seven, with a cup of tea. By ten 
o'clock Lord Augustus would not have had time 
to take his first glass of soda- and -brandy pre- 
paratory to the labor of getting into his clothes. 
But he was afraid of his wife and daughter, and 
absolutely did get into a cab at the door of his 
lodgings in Duke Street, St. James's, precisely at 
a quarter-past ten. As the duke's house was 
close to the corner of Charges Street, the journey 
he had to make was not long. 

Lord RufFord would not have agreed to the 
interview, but that it was forced upon him by his 
brother-in-law. "What good can it do ?" Lord 
RufFord had asked. But his brother-in-law had 
held that that was a question to be answered by 
the other side. In such a position Sir George 
thought that he was bound to concede as much 
as this — in fact, to concede almost any thing 
short of marri^e. "He can't do the girl any 
good by talking," Lord RufFord had said. Sir 
George assented to this, but nevertheless thought 
that any friend deputed by her should be al- 
lowed to talk, at any rate once. " I don't know 
what he'll say. Do you think he'll bring a big 
stick ?" Sir George, who knew Lord Augustus, 
did not imagine that a stick would be brought. 
"I couldn't hit him, you know. He's so fat 
that a blow would kill him." Lord RufFord 
M-anted his brother-in-law to go with him ; but 



Sir George assured him that this was impossi- 
ble. 

It was a great bore. He had to go up to 
London all alone, in February, when the weath- 
er was quite open, and hunting was nearly com- 
ing to an end. And for what ? Was it likely 
that such a man as Lord Augustus should suc- 
ceed in talking him into marrying any girl? 
Nevertheless, he went, prepared to be very civil, 
full of sorrow at the misunderstanding, but strong 
in his determination not to yield an inch. He 
arrived at the mansion precisely at ten o'clock, 
and was at once shown into a back room on the 
ground-floor. He saw no one but a very demure 
old servant, who seemed to look upon him as one 
who was sinning against the Trefoil family in 
general, and who shut the door upon him, leaving 
him, as it were, in prison. He was so accus- 
tomed to be the absolute master of his own min- 
utes and hours that he chafed greatly as he 
walked up and down the room for what seemed 
to him the greater part of a day. He looked re- 
peatedly at his watch, and at half-past ten declared 
to himself that if that fat old fool did not come 
w-ithin two minutes he would make his escape. 

" The fat old fool," when he reached the house, 
asked for his nephew, and endeavored to per- 
suade Lord Mistletoe to go with him to the in- 
terview. But Lord Mistletoe was as firm in 
I'efusing as had been Sir George Penwether. 
' ' You are quite wrong, " said the young man, 
with well-informed sententious gravity. "I 
could do nothing to help you. You are Ara- 
bella's father, and no one can plead her cause 
but yourself." 

Lord Augustus dropped his eyebrows over his 
eyes as this w^as said. They who knew him 
well, and had seen the same thing done when his 
partner would not answer his call at whist, or 
had led up to his discard, were aware that the 
motion was tantamount to a very strong expres- 
sion of disgust. He did not, however, argue the 
matter any further, but allowed himself to be led 
away slowly by the same solemn servant. Lord 
Rufford had taken up his hat preparatory to his 
departure, when Lord Augustus was announced 
just five minutes after the half-hour. 

When the elder man entered the room, the 
younger one put down his hat and bowed. Lord 
Augustus also bowed, and then stood for a few 
moments silent, with his fat hands extended on 
the round table in the middle of the room. 
"This is a very disagreeable kind of thing, my 
lord," he said. 

' ' Very disagreeable, and one that I lament 
above all things," answered Lord Rufford. 

" That's all very well — very well, indeed ; but, 
damme, what'e the meaning of it all ? 'That's 
what I want to ask. What's the meaning of it 
all ?" Then he paiised as though he had com- 
pleted his first part of the business, and might 
now wait awhile till the necessary explanation 
had been given. 

But Lord Rufford did not seem disposed to give 
any immediate answer. He shrugged his shoul- 
ders, and, taking up his hat, passed his hand 
once 01' twice round the nap. Lord Augustus 
opened his eyes very wide as he waited and look- 
ed at the other man ; but it seemed that the 
other man had nothing to say for himself. 

"You don't mean to tell me, I suppose, that 
what my daughter says isn't true." 



134 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



"Some unfortunate mistake, Lord Augustus; 
— most unfortunate." 

"Mistake be — ." He stopped himself before 
the sentence was completed, remembering that 
such an interview should be conducted on the 
part of him, as father, with something of dignity. 
"I don't understand any thing about mistakes. 
Ladies don't make mistakes of that kind, I 
won't hear of mistakes." Lord Rufford again 
shrugged his shoulders. "You have engaged 
my daughter's affections. " 

"I have the greatest regard for Miss Trefoil." 

' ' Regard be — . " Then again he remembered 
himself. "Lord Rufford, you've got to marry 
hei'. That's the long and the short of it." 

"I'm sure I ought to be proud." 

"So you ought." 

"But—" 

"I don't know the meaning of but, my lord. 
I want to know what you mean to do." 

" Marriage isn't in my line at all." 

"Then what the d — business have you to 
go about and talk to a girl like that ? Marriage 
not in your line ! Who cares for your line ? I 
never heard such impudence in all my life. You 
get yourself engaged to a young lady of high 
rank and position, and then you say that — mar- 
riage isn't in your line." Upon that he opened 
his eyes still wider, and glared upon the offender 
wrathfully. 

"I can't admit that I was ever engaged to 
Miss Trefoil." 

" Didn't you make love to her?" 

The poor victim paused a moment before he 
answered this question, tliereby confessing his 
guilt before he denied it. "No, my lord; I 
don't think I ever did." 

"You don't think ! You don't know whether 
you asked my daughter to marry you or not! 
You don't think you made love to her ! " 

"I am sure I didn't ask her to marry me." 

"I am sure you did. And now what have 
you got to say ?" Here there was another shrug 
of the shoulders. "I suppose you think because 
you are a rich man that you may do whatever 
you please. But you'll have to learn the differ- 
ence. You must be exposed, sir." 

"I hope, for the lady's sake, that as little as 
possible may be said of'it." 

"D — the — !" Lord Augustus, in his as- 
sumed wrath, was about to be very severe on his 
daughter, but he checked himself again. "I'm 
not going to stop here talking all day," he said. 
"I want to hear your explanation, and then I 
shall know how to act." Up to this time he had 
been standing, which was unusual with him. 
Now he flung himself into an arm-chair. 

"Really, Lord Augustus, I don't know what 
I've got to say. I admire your daughter exceed- 
ingly. I was very much honored when she and 
her mother came to my house at Rufford. I was 
delighted to be able to show her a little sport. 
It gave me the greatest satisfaction when I met 
her again at your brother's house. Coming home 
from hunting, we happened to be thrown togeth- 
er. It's a kind of thing that will occur, you 
know. The duchess seemed to think a great 
deal of it ; but what can one do ? We could 
have had -two post-chaises, of course, only one 
doesn't generally send a young lady alone. She 
was veiy tired, and fainted with the fatigue. 
That, I think, is about all." 



"But, damme, sir, what did you say to her?" 
Lord Rufford again rubbed the nap of his hat. 
' ' What did you say to her first of all, at your 
own house ?" 

"A poor fellow was killed out hunting, and 
every body was talking about that. Your daugh- 
ter saw it herself. " 

"Excuse me. Lord Rufford, if I say that that's 
what we used to call shuffling at school. Be- 
cause a man broke his neck out hunting — " 

" It was a kick on the head. Lord Augustus." 

"I don't care where he was kicked. What 
has that to do with your asking my daughter to 
be your wife." 

"But I didn't." 

"I say you did, over and over again." Here 
Lord Augustus got out of his chair and made a 
little attempt to reach the recreant lover ; but he 
failed, and fell back again into his arm-chair. 
" It was first at Rufford, and then you made an 
appointment to meet her at Mistletoe. How do 
you explain that?" 

" Miss Trefoil is very fond of hunting." 

"I don't believe she ever went out hunting in 
her life before she saw you. You mounted her, 
and gave her a horse, and took her out, and 
brought her home. Every body at Mistletoe 
knew all about it. My brother and the duchess 
were told of it. It was one of those things that 
are plain to every body as the nose on your face. 
What did you say to her when you were coming 
home in that post-chaise ?" 

" She was fainting." 

" What has that to do with it? I don't care 
whether she fainted or not. I don't believe she 
fainted at all. Wlien she got into that carriage 
she was engaged to you, and when she got out 
of it she was engaged ever so much more. The 
duchess knew all about it. Now what have you 
got to say?" Lord Rufford felt that he had 
nothing to say. "I insist upon having an an- 
swer." 

"It's one of the most unfortunate mistakes 
that ever were made." 

"ByG — !" exclaimed Lord Augustus, turn- 
ing his eyes up against the wall and appealing to 
some dark ancestor who hung there. "I never 
heard of such a thing in all my life ; never !" 

"I suppose I might as well go now," said 
Lord Rufford, after a pause. 

"You may go to the d— , sir, for the present." , 
Then Lord Rufford took his departure, leaving 
the injured parent panting with his exertions. 

As Lord Rufford went away, he felt that that 
difficulty had been overcome with much more 
ease than he had expected. He hardly knew 
what it was that he had dreaded, but he had 
feared something much worse than that. Had 
an appeal been made to his affections, he would 
hardly have known how to answer. He remem- 
bered" well that he had assured the lady that he 
loved her, and, had a direct question been asked 
him on that subject, he would not have lied. He 
must have confessed that such a declaration had 
been made by him. But he had escaped that. 
He was quite sure that he had never uttered a 
hint in regard to marriage, and lie came away 
from the duke's house almost with an assur- 
ance that he had done nothing that was worthy 
of much blame. 

Lord Augustus looked at his watch, rang the 
bell, and ordered a cab. He must now go and 



THE AMERCAN SENATOR. 



135 



see his daughter, and then he would have done 
with the matter forever. But, as he was passing 
through the hall, his nephew caught hold of him 
and took him back into the room, "What does 
■ he say for himself?" asked Lord Mistletoe. 

"I don't know what he says. Of course he 
swears that he never spoke a word to her." 

"My mother saw him paying her the closest 
attention." 

"How can I help that? What can I do? 
Why didn't your mother pin him then and there? 
Women can always do that kind of thing if they 
choose." 

" It is all over, then ?" 

"I can't make a man marry if he won't. He 
ought to be thrashed within an inch of his life. 
But if one does that kind of thing, the police are 
down upon one. All the same, I think the duch- 
ess might have managed it if she had chosen." 
After that he went to the lodgings in Orchard 
Street, and there repeated his story. "I have 
done all I can," he said, "and I don't mean to 
interfere any further. Arabella should know 
how to manage her own affairs." 

"And you don't mean to punish him?" asked 
the mother. 

"Punish him! How am I to punish him? 
If I were to throw a decanter at his head, what 
good would that do ?" 

' ' And you mean to say that she must put up 
with it ?" Arabella was sitting by as these ques- 
tions were asked. 

"He says that he never said a word to her. 
Whom am I to believe ?" 

"You did believe him, papa?" 

"Who said so, miss? But I don't see why 
his word isn't as good as yours. There was no- 
body by to hear it, I suppose. Why didn't you 
get it in writing, or make your uncle fix him at 
once? If you mismanage your own affairs, I 
can't put them right for you." 

"Thank you, papa. I am so much obliged 
to you. You come back and tell me that every 
word he says is to be taken for gospel, and that 
you don't believe a word I have spoken. That 
is so kind of you ! I suppose he and you will 
be the best friends in the world now. But I 
don't mean to let him off in that way. As you 
won't help me, I must help myself." 

"What did you expect me to do?" 

"Never to leave him till you had forced him 
to keep his word. I should have thought that 
you would have taken him by the throat, in such 
a cause. Any other father would have done 
so," 

" You are an impudent, wicked girl, and I 
don't believe he was ever engaged to you at all," 
said Lord Augustus, as he took his leave, 

"Now you have made j^our father your ene- 
my," said the mother, 

"Every body is my enemy," said Arabella, 
"There are no such things as love and friend- 
ship. Papa pretends that he does not believe 
me, just because he wants to shirk the trouble, 
I suppose you'll say you don't believe me next." 



-tk^^rfTT^ 



CHAPTER LVII. 



MRS, MORTON RETURNS. 



A FEW days after that on which Lady Augus- 
tus and her daughter left Bragton, old Mrs. Mor- 
ton returned to that place. She had gone away 
in very bitterness of spirit against her grandson, 
in the early days of his illness. For some period 
antecedent to that there had come up causes for 
quarreling, John Morton had told her that he 
had been to Reginald's house, and she, in her 
wrath, replied that he had disgraced himself by 
doing so. When those harsh words had been 
forgotten, or at any rate forgiven, other causes 
of anger had sprung up. She had endeavored 
to drive him to repudiate Arabella Trefoil, and, 
in order that she might do so effectually, had 
contrived to find out something of Arabella's do- 
ings at Rufford and at Mistletoe, Her efforts 
in this direction had had an effect directly con- 
trary to that which she had intended. There 
had been moments in which Morton had been 
willing enough to rid himself of that burden. 
He had felt the lady's conduct in his own house, 
and had seen it at Ruftbrd. He, too, had heard 
something of Mistletoe, But the spirit within 
him was aroused at the idea of dictation, and he 
had been prompted to contradict the old wom- 
an's accusation against his intended bride by 
the very fact that they were made by her. And 
then she threatened him. If he did these things, 
if he would consort with an outcast from the 
family such as Reginald Morton, and take to 
himself such a bride as Arabella Trefoil, he could 
never more be to her as her child. This, of 
course, was tantamount to saying that she would 
leave her money to some one else — money which, 
as he well knew, had all been collected from the 
Bragton property. He had ever been to her as 
her son, and yet he was aware of a propensity 
on her part to enrich her own noble relatives 
with her hoards — a desire from gratifying which 
she had hitherto been restrained by conscience, 

Morton had been anxious enough for his 
grandmother's money, but, even in the hope of 
receiving it, would not bear indignity beyond a 
certain point. He had therefore declared it to 
be his purpose to marry Arabella Trefoil, and 
because he had so declared almost had brought 
himself to forgive that young lady's sins against 
him. Then, as his illness became serious, there 
arose the question of disposing of the property 
in the event of his death, Mrs, Morton was 
herself very old, and was near her grave. She 
was apt to speak of herself as one who had but a 
few days left to her in this world. But, to her, 
property was more important than life or death, 
and rank probably more important than either. 
She was a brave, fierce, evil-minded, but consci- 
entious old woman — one, we may say, with very 
bad lights indeed, but who was steadfastly minded 
to walk by those lights, such as they were. She 
did not scruple to tell her grandson that it was 
his duty to leave the property away from his 
cousin Reginald, nor to allege, as a reason for 
his doing so, that in all probability Reginald 
Morton was not the legitimate heir of his great- 
grandfather. Sir Reginald. For such an asser- 
tion John Morton knew there was not a shadow 
of groui^d. No one but this old woman had 
ever suspected that the Canadian girl whom 
Reginald's father had brought with him to Brag- 



136 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



ton had been other than his honest wife ; and 
her suspicions had only come from vague asser- 
tions, made by herself in blind anger, till at last 
she had learned to believe them. Then, when, 
in addition to this, he asserted his purpose of 
asking Arabella Trefoil to come to him at Brag- 
ton, the cup of her wrath was overflowing, and 
she withdrew from the house altogether. It 
might be that he was dying. She did, in truth, 
believe that he was dying. But there were 
things more serious to her than life or death. 
Should she allow him to trample upon all her 
feelings because he was on his death-bed, Avhen 
perhaps, in very truth, he might not be on his 
death- bed at all? She, at any rate, was near 
her death, and she would do her duty. So she 
packed up her things, to the last black skirt of 
an old gown, so that every one at Bragton might 
know that it was her purpose to come back no 
more. And she went away. 

Then Lady Ushant came to take her place, 
and with Lady Ushant came Reginald Morton. 
The one lived in the house, and the other visited 
it daily. And, as the reader knows. Lady Au- 
gustus came with her daughter. Mrs. Morton, 
though she had gone forever, took care to know 
of the comings and goings at Bragton. Mrs. 
Hopkins was enjoined to write to her and tell 
her every thing ; and though Mrs. Hopkins with 
all lier heart took the side of Lady Ushant and 
Reginald, she had never been well inclined to 
Miss Trefoil. Presents, too, were given, and 
promises were made, and Mrs. Hopkins, not with- 
out some little treachery, did from time to time 
send to the old lady a record of what took place 
at Bragton. Arabella came and went, and Mrs. 
Hopkins thought that her coming had not led to 
much. Lady Ushant was always with Mr. John 
— such was the account given bj' Mrs. Hopkins ; 
and the genei'al opinion was that the squire's days 
were numbered. 

Then the old woman's jealousy was aroused, 
and perhaps her heart was softened. It was still 
hard, black, winter, and she was living alone in 
lodgings in London. The noble cousin, a man 
nearly as old as herself, whose children she was 
desirous to enrich, took but little notice of her; 
nor would she have been happy had she lived 
with him. Her life Iiad been usually solitary — 
with little breaks to its loneliness occasioned bj' 
the visits to England of him whom she had call- 
ed her cliild. That this child should die before 
her, should die in his j-outh, did not shock her 
much. Her husband had done so, and her own 
son, and sundry of her noble brothers and sisters. 
She was hardened against death. Life to her 
had never been joyous, though the trappings of 
life were so great in her eyes. But it broke her 
heart that her child should die in the arms of 
another old woman, who had always been to her 
as an enemy. Lady Ushant, in days now long 
gone by, but still remembered as though they 
were yesterday, had counseled the reception of 
the Canadian female. And Lad}^ Ushant, when 
the Canadian female and Iier husband were dead, 
had been a mother to the boy whom she, Mrs. 
Morton, would so fain have repudiated altogeth- 
er. Lady Ushant had always been "on the oth- 
er side;" and now Lady Ushant was paramount 
at Bragton. 

And doubtless there was some tenderness, 
though Mrs. Morton was unwilling to own even 



to herself that she was moved by any such feel- 
ing. If she had done her duty in counseling him 
to reject both Reginald Morton and Arabella 
Trefoil — as to which she admitted no doubt in 
her own mind — and if duty had required her to 
absent herself when her counsel was spurned, 
then would she be weak, and unmindful of duty, 
should she allow any softness of heart to lure her 
back again. It was so she reasoned. But still 
some softness was there ; and when she heard 
that Miss Trefoil had gone, and that her visit 
had not, in Mrs. Hopkins's opinion, "led to 
much," she wrote to say that she would return. 
She made no request, and clothed her suggestion 
in no words of tenderness, but simply told her 
grandson that she would come back — as the 
Trefoils had left him. 

And she did come. When the news was first 
told to Lady Ushant by the sick man himself, 
that lady proposed that she should at once go 
back to Cheltenham. But when she was asked 
whether her animosity to IMrs. Morton was so 
great that she could not consent to remain un- 
der tlie same roof, she at once declared that she 
had no animosity whatsoever. The idea of ani- 
mosity running over nearly half a centui'y was 
horrible to her ; and therefore, though she did in 
her heart of hearts dread the other old Moman, 
she consented to stay. "And what shall Regi- 
nald do?" she asked. John Morton had thought 
about this too, and expressed a wish that Regi- 
nald should come regularly — as he had come 
during the last week or two. 

It was just a week from the day on which the 
Trefoils had gone that Mrs. Morton was driven 
up to the door in Mr. Runciman's fly. This was 
at four in the afternoon ; and had the old wom- 
an looked out of the fly window she might have 
seen Reginald making his way by the little path 
to the bridge which led back to Dillsborough. 
It was at this hour that he went daily, and he 
had not now thought it worth his Avhile to re- 
main to welcome Mrs. Morton. And she might 
also have seen, had she looked out, that with 
him was walking a young woman. She would 
not have known Mary Masters ; but had she 
seen them both, and had she known the young 
woman, she would have declared, in her pride, 
that they were fit associates. But she saw noth- 
ing of this, sitting tliere behind her veil, thinking 
whether she might still do any tiling, and, if so, 
what she might do to avert the present evil des- 
tination of the Bragton estate. There was an 
honorable nephew of her own — or rather a great- 
nephew — who might easily take the name, who 
would so willingly take the name! or, if this 
were impracticable, there was a distant Morton, 
very distant, whom she had never seen, and cer- 
tainly did not love, but who was clearly a Mor- 
ton, and who would certainly be preferable to that 
young enemy of forty years' standing. Might 
there not be some bargain made? Would not 
her dying grandson be alive to the evident duty 
of enriching the property and leaving behind him 
a wealthy heir? She could enrich the property, 
and make the heir wealthy, by her money. 

" How is he?" That, of course, was tlie first 
question when Mrs. Hopkins met her in the hall. 
Mrs. Hopkins only shook her head, and said that 
perhaps he had taken his food that day a little 
better than on the last. Then there was a whis- 
per, to which Jlrs. Hopkins whispered back her 



TEIE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



137 



answer. Yeti, Laily Ushant was in the house — 
was at this moment in the sick man's room. 
Mr. Reginald was not staying there — had never 
staid there — but came every day. He had only 
just left. "And is he to come still?" asked Mrs. 
Morton, with wrath in her eyes. Mrs. Hopkins 
did not know, but was disposed to think that Mr. 
Reginald would come every day. Then Mrs. 
Morton went up to her own room, and while she 
prepared herself for her visit to the sick-room 
Lady Ushant retired. She had a cup of tea, re- 
fusing all other refreshment ; and then, walking 
erect as though she had been forty instead of 
seventy-five, she entered her grandson's chamber, 
and took her old place at his bedside. 

Nothing was then said about Arabella, nor, 
indeed, at any future time was her name men- 
tioned between them; nor was any thing then 
said about the future fate of the estate. She did 
not dare to bring up the subject at once, though, 
on the journey down from London, she had de- 
termined that she would do so. But she was 
awed by his appearance, and by the increased 
appanages of his sick-bed. He spoke, indeed, 
of the property, and expressed his anxiety that 
Chowton Farm should be bought, if it came into 
the market. He thought that the old acres 
should be redeemed, if the opportunity arose, 
and if the money could be found. 

" Chowton Farm !" exclaimed the old woman, 
who remembered well the agony whicli had at- 
tended the alienation of that portion of the Mor- 
ton lands. 

"It may be that it w^ill be sold." 

"Lawrence Twentyman sell Chowton Farm! 
I thought he was well off." Little as she had 
been at Bragton, she knew all about Chowton 
Farm, except that its owner was so wounded by 
vain love as to be like a hurt deer. Her grand- 
son did not tell her all the story, but explained 
to her that Lawrence Twentyman, though not 
poor, had other plans of life, and thought of 
leaving the neighborhood. She, of course, Iiad 
the money ; and as she believed that land was 
the one proper possession for an English gentle- 
man of ancient family, she doubtless would liave 
been willing to buy it, had she approved of the 
hands into which it would fall. It seemed to 
him that it was her duty to do as much for the 
estate with which all her fortune had been con- 
cerned. " Yes," she said ; " it should be bought, 
if other tilings suited. We will talk of it to- 
morrow, John." 

Then he spoke of his mission to Patagonia, 
and of his regret that it should be abandoned. 
Even were he ever to be well again, his strength 
would return to him too late for this purpose. 
He had already made known to the Foreign Of- 
fice his inability to undertake that service. But 
she could perceive that he had not in truth aban- 
doned his hopes of living, for he spoke much 
of his ambition as to the public service. The 
more he thought of it, he said, tlie more certain 
he became that it would suit him better to go 
on with his profession, than to live the life of a 
country squire in England. And yet she could 
see the change which had taken place since she 
was last there, and was aware tiiat he was fad- 
ing away from day to day. 

It was not till they were summoned to dine 
together that she saw Lady Ushant. Very many 
years had passed since last they were together. 



and yet neither seemed to the other to be much 
changed. Lady Ushant was still soft, retiring, 
and almost timid ; whereas Mrs. Morton showed 
her inclination to domineer even in the way in 
which she helped herself to salt. While the 
servant w,as with them, very little was said on 
either side. There was a word or two from Mrs. 
Morton to show that she considered herself the 
mistress there, and a word from the other lady 
proclaiming that she had no pretensions of that 
kind. But after dinner in the little drawing- 
room they were more communicative. Some- 
thing, of course, was said as to the health of the 
invalid. Lady Ushant was not the woman to 
give a pronounced opinion on such a subject. 
She used doubtful, hesitating words, and would 
in one minute almost contradict what she had 
said in the former. But Mrs. Morton was clev- 
er enough to perceive that Lady Usliant was al- 
most without hope. Then she made a little 
speech with a fixed purpose. "It must be a 
great trouble to you. Lady Ushant, to be so long 
away from home." 

"Not at all," said Lady Ushant, in perfect 
innocence. "I have nothing to bind me any- 
where." 

"I shall think it my duty to remain here now 
till the end." 

"I suppose so. He has always been almost 
the same to you as your own. " 

" Quite so ; quite the same. He is my own." 
And yet — tliought Lady Ushant — she left him 
in his illness! She, too, had heard something 
from Mrs. Ho|)kins of the temper in which Mrs, 
Morton had last left Bragton. "But you are 
not bound to him in that way. " 

' ' Not in that waj', certainly. " 

"In no way, I may say. It was very kind 
of you to come when business made it imperative 
on me to go to town, but I do not think w^e can 
call upon you for a further sacrifice." 

"It is no sacrifice, Mrs. Morton." Lady 
Ushant was as meek as a worm, but a worm will 
turn. And, though innocent, slie was quick 
enough to perceive that at this, their first meet- 
ing, the other old woman was endeavoring to 
turn her out of the house. 

"I mean that it can hardly be necessary to 
call upon you to give up your time." 

"What has an old woman to do with her 
time, Mrs. Morton ?" 

Hitherto Mrs. Morton had smiled. The smile 
indeed had been grim, but it had been intended 
to betoken outwai-d civility. Now there came a 
frown upon her brow which was more grim, and 
by no means civil. "The truth is, that at such 
a time one who is almost a stranger — " 

"I am no stranger," said Lady Ushant. 

"You had not seen him since he was an in- 
fant." 

"My name was Morton, as is his, and my 
dear father was the owner of this house. Your 
husband, Mrs. Morton, wa« his grandfather, and 
my brother. I will allow no one to tell me that 
I am a stranger at Bragton. I have lived here 
many more years than you." 

"A stranger to him, I meant. And now that 
he is ill — " 

"I shall stay with him, till he desires me to 
go away. He has asked me to stay, and that 
is quite enough." Then she got up and left the 
room with more dignity, as also she had spoken 



138 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



with more earnestness, tlian Mrs. Morton had 
given her credit for possessing. After that the 
two ladies did not meet again till the next day. 



V 



CPIAPTER LVIII. 

THE TWO OLD LADIES. 

On the next morning Mrs. Morton did not 
come down to breakfast, but sat alone upstairs 
nursing her wrath. During the night she had 
made up her mind to one or two things. She 
would never enter her grandson's chamber when 
Lady Ushant was there. She would not speak 
to Reginald Morton, and should he come into 
her presence while she was at Bragton she would 
leave the room. She would do her best to make 
the house, in common parlance, "too hot" to 
hold that other woman. And she would make 
use of those words which John had spoken con- 
cerning Chowton Farm, as a peg on which she 
might hang her discourse in reference to his will. 
If, in doing all this, she should leceive that du- 
tiful assistance which she thought that he owed 
her, then she would stand by his bedside, and be 
tender to him, and nurse him to the last as a 
mother would nurse a child. But if, as she fear- 
ed, he were headstrong in disobeying, then she 
would remember that her duty to her family, if 
done with a firm purpose, would have lasting 
results, while his life might probably be an af- 
fair of a few weeks, or even days. 

At about eleven Lady Ushant Avas with her 
patient, when a message was brought by Mrs. 
Hopkins. Mrs. Morton wished to see her grand- 
son, and desired to know whether it would suit 
him that she should come now. 

"Why not?" said the sick man, who was sit- 
ting up in his bed. 

Then Lady Ushant collected her knitting and 
was about to depart. 

"Must you go because she is coming?" Mor- 
ton asked. 

Lady Ushant, shocked at the necessity of ex- 
plaining to him the ill feeling which existed, said 
that perhaps it would be best. 

"Why should it be best?" 

Lady Ushant shook her head and smiled, and 
put her hand upon the counterpane, and retired. 
As she passed the door of her rival's room, she 
could see the black silk dress moving behind the 
partly opened door, and, as she entered her own, 
she heard Mrs. Morton's step upon the corridor. 
The place was already almost " too hot " for her. 
Any thing would be better than scenes like this 
in the house of a dying man. 

" Need mj' aunt have gone away ?" he asked, 
after the first greeting. 

"I did not say so." 

"She seemed to think that she was not to 
staj'." 

' ' Can I help what she thinks, John ? Of 
course she feels that she is — " 

"Is what?" 

"An intei'loper, if I must say it." 

"But I have sent for her, and I have begged 
her to stay." 

"Of course she can stay if she wishes. But, 
dear John, there must be much to be said be- 
tween yon and me which — which can not 'in- 
terest her ;' or which, at least, she ought not to 



hear." He did not contradict this in words, 
feeling himself to be too weak for contest ; but 
within his own mind he declared that it was not 
so. The things which interested him now were 
as likely to interest his great-aunt as his grand- 
mother, and to be as fit for the ears of the one 
as for those of the other. 

An hour had passed after this, during which 
she had tended him, giving him food and med- 
icine, and he had slept, before she ventured to 
allude to the subject which was nearest to her 
heart. "John," she said at last, "I have been 
thinking about Chowton Farm." 

"Well." 

"It certainly should be bought." 

"If the man resolves on selHng it." 

" Of course ; I mean that. How much would 
it be ?" Then he mentioned the sum which 
Twentyman had named, saying that he had in- 
quired, and had been told that the- price was 
reasonable. " It is a large sum of money, John. " 

"There might be a mortgage for part of it." 

" I don't like mortgages. The property would 
not be yours at all if it were mortgaged as soon 
as bought. You would pay five per cent, for the 
money, and only get three per cent, from the 
land." The old lady understood all about it. 

"I could pay it ofi" in two years," said the 
sick man. 

"There need be no paying off, and no mort- 
gage, if I did it. I almost believe I have got 
enough to do it." He knew very well that she 
had much more than enough. "I think more 
of this property than of any thing in the world, 
my dear." 

" Chowton Farm could be yours, yon know." 

"What should I do with Chowton Farm ? I 
shall probably be in my grave before the slow 
lawyer would have executed the deeds." And 
I in mine, thought he to himself, before the pres- 
ent owner has quite made up his mind to part 
with his land. "What would a little place like 
that do for me ? But in my father-in-law's time 
it was part of the Bragton propertJ^ He sold 
it to pay the debts of a younger son, forgetting, 
as I thought, what he owed to the estate" — 
it had, in truth, been sold on behalf of the hus- 
band of this old woman who was now complain- 
ing — "and if it can be recovered, it is our duty 
to get it back again. A property like this should 
never be lessened. It is in that way that the 
countiy is given over to shop-keepers and spec- 
ulators, and is made to be like France or Italy. 
I quite think that Chowton Farm should be 
bought. And though I might die before it was 
done, I would find the money." 

" I knew what your feeling would be." 

"Yes, John. You could not but know it well. 
But — " Then she paused a moment, looking 
into his face. "But I should wish to know what 
would become of it eventually." 

"If it were yours you could do what you 
pleased with it." 

" But it would be yours." 

"Then it would go with the rest of the prop- 
erty." 

" To whom would it go ? We have all to die, 
my dear, and who can say whom it may please 
the Almighty to take first?" 

"In this house, ma'am, every one can give a 
shrewd guess, I know my own condition. If 
I die without children of my own, every acre I 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



139 



possess will go to the proper heir. Thinking as 
you do, you ought to agree with me in that." 

"But who is the proper heir?" 

"My cousin Reginald. Do not let us contest 
it, ma'am. As certainly as I lie here, he will 
have Bragton when I am gone." 

" Will you not listen to me, John ?" 

"Not about that ? How could I die in peace, 
were I to rob him?" 

"It is all your own, to do as you like with." 

"It is all my own, but not to do as I like 
with. With your feelings, with your ideas, how 
can you urge me to such injustice ?" 

"Do I want it' for myself? I do not even 
want it for any one belonging to me. Tliere is 
your cousin Peter." 

"If he were the heir, he should have it — 
though I know nothing of him, and believe him 
to be but a poor creature, and very unfit to have 
the custody of a family property." 

"But he is his fathei''s son." 

"I will believe nothing of that," said the sick 
man, raising himself in his bed. "It is a slan- 
der ; it is based on no evidence whatsoever. No 
one even thought of it but you." 

" John, is that the way to speak to me ?" 

" It is the way to speak of an assertion so in- 
jurious." 

Then he fell back again on his pillows, and she 
sat by his bedside for a full half-hour speechless, 
thinking of it all. At the end of that time she 
had resolved that she would not yet give it up. 
Should he regain his health and strength — and 
she would pray fei'vently night and day that God 
would be so good to him — then every thing would 
be well. Then he would marry and have chil- 
dren, and Bragton would descend in the right 
line. But were it to be ordained otherwise, 
should it be God's will that he must die, then, as 
he grew weaker, he would become more plastic 
in her hands, and she might still prevail. At 
present he was stubborn with the old stubborn- 
ness, and would not see with her eyes. She 
would bide her time, and be cai-eful to have a 
lawyer ready. She turned it all over in her mind, 
as she sat there watching him in his sleep. She 
knew of no one but Mr. Masters, whom she dis- 
trusted as being connected with the other side 
of the family, whose father had made that will 
by which the property in DiUsborough had been 
dissevered from Bragton, But Mr, Masters 
would probably obey instructions if they were 
given to him definitely. 

She thought of it all, and then went down to 
lunch. She did not dare to refuse altogether to 
meet the other woman, lest such a resolve on her 
part might teach those in the house to think that 
Lady Ushant was the mistress. She took her 
place at the head of the table, and interchanged a 
few words with her grandson's guest — which, of 
course, had reference to his health. Lady Ushant 
was very ill able to carry on a battle of any sort, 
and was willing to show her submission in every 
thing, unless she were desired to leave the house. 
While tliey were still sitting at table, Reginald 
Morton walked into the room. It had been his 
habit to do so regularly for the last week. A 
daily visitor does not wait to have himself an- 
nounced. Reginald had considered the matter, 
and had determined that he would follow his 
practice just as though Mrs, Morton were not 
there. If she were civil to him, then would he 



be very courteous to her. It had never occurred 
to him to expect conduct such as that with which 
she greeted him. The old woman got up and 
looked at him sternly : "My nephew, Reginald," 
said Lady Ushant, supposing that some introduc- 
tion might be necessary, Mrs, Morton gathered 
the folds of her dress together and, without a 
word, stalked out cf the room. And yet she 
believed — she could not but believe — that her 
grandson was on his death-bed in the room above ! 

"Oh, Reginald, what are we to do?" said 
Lady Ushant, 

" Is she like that to you?" 

" She told me last night that I was a stranger, 
and that I ought to leave the house." 

" And what did you say ?" 

' ' I told her I should stay while he wished me 
to stay. But it is all so terrible that I think I 
had better go." 

" I would not stir a step on her account," 

"But why should she be so bitter? I have 
done nothing to offend her. It is more than 
half even my long life-time since I saw her. She 
is nothing ; but I have to think of his comfort. 
I suppose she is good to him ; and, though he 
may bid me stay, such scenes as this in the house 
must be a trouble to him." Nevertheless, Regi- 
nald was strong in opinion that Lady Ushant 
ought not to allow herself to be driven away, and 
declared his own purpose of coming daily, as 
had of late been his wont. 

Soon after this Reginald was summoned to 
go upstairs, and he again met the angry woman 
in the passage, passing her, of course, without a 
word. And then Mary came to see her friend, 
and she also encountered Mrs. Morton, who was 
determined that no one sliould come into that 
house without her knowledge. 

"Who is that young woman?" said Mrs. 
Morton to the old housekeeper, 

" That is Miss Masters," my' lady. 

"And who is Miss Masters — and why does 
she come hei'e at such a time as this ?" 

' ' She is the daughter of Attorney Masters, my 
lady. It was she as was brought up here by 
Lady Ushant." 

" Oh, that young person." 

" She's come here generally of a day now to 
see her ladyship." 

" And is she taken up to my grandson ?" 

"Oh dear no, my lady. She sits with Lady 
Ushant for an hour or so, and then goes back 
with Mr. Reginald." 

" Oh, that is it, is it ? The house is made use 
of ^or such purposes as that ! " 

" I don't think there is any pui-poses, my lady," 
said Mrs. Hopkins, almost roused to indignation, 
although she was talking to the acknowledged 
mistress of the house, whom she always called 
"my lady." 

Lady Ushant told the whole story to her young 
friend, bitterly bewailing her position. "Regi- 
nald tells me not to go, but I do not think that I 
can stand it. I should not mind the quarrel so 
much, only that he is so ill." 

" She must be a very evil-minded person." 

" She was always arrogant, and always hard. 
I can remember her just the same ; but that was 
so many years ago. She left Bragton, then, be- 
cause she could not banish his mother from the 
house. But to bear it all in her heart so long 
is not like a human being, let alone a woman. 



140 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



What did he say to you going home yester- 
day?" 

' ' Nothing, Lad}' Ushant. " 

"]Does he know that it will all be his if that 
poor fellow should die? He never speaks to me 
as though he thought of it." 

"He would certainly not speak to me about 
it. I do not think he thinks of it. He is not 
like that." 

"Men do consider such things. And they 
are only cousins ; and they have never known 
each other ! Oh, Mary !" 

"What are you thinking of, Lady Ushant ?" 

"Men ought not to care for money or posi- 
tion, but they do. If he comes here, all that I 
have will be yours." 

"Oh, Lady Ushant!" 

" It is not much, but it will be enough." 

"I do not want to hear about such things 
now." 

"But you ought to be told. Ah, dear; if it 
could be as I wish !" The imprudent, weak- 
minded, loving old woman longed to hear a tale 
of mutual love — longed to do something which 
should cause such a tale to be true on both sides ; 
and yet she could not quite bring hei-self to ex- 
press her wish either to the man or to the woman. 

Poor Mary almost understood it, but was not 
quite sure of her friend's meaning. She was, 
however, quite sure that if such were the wish 
of Lady Ushant's heart. Lady Ushant was wish- 
ing in vain. She had twice walked back to 
Dillsborough with Reginald Morton, and he had 
been more sedate, more middle-aged, less like a 
lover than ever. She knew now that she might 
safely walk with him, being sure that he was no 
more likely to talk of love than would have been 
old Dr. Napper, had she accepted the offer which 
he had made her of a cast in his gig. And, now 
tiiat Reginald would probably become Squire of 
Bragton, it was more impossible than ever. As 
Squire of Bragton, he would seek some highly 
born bride, quite out of her way, whom she could 
never know. And then she would see neither 
him nor Bragton any more. Would it not have 
been better that she should have married Larry 
Twentyman, and put an end to so many troubles 
beside her own ? 

Again she walked back with him to Dills- 
borough, passing, as they always did, across the 
little bridge. He seemed to be very silent as 
he went — more so than usual ; and, as was her 
wont with him, she only spoke to him when he 
addressed her. It was only when he got out on 
the road that lie told her what was on his mind. 
"Mary," he said, "how will it be with me if 
that poor fellow dies ?" 

' ' In what way, Mr. Morton ?" 

"All that place will be mine. He told me 
so just now." 

"But that would be, of course." 

"Not at all. He might give it to you if he 
pleased. He could not have an heir who would 
care for it less. But it is i-ight that it should 
be so. Whether it would suit my taste or not 
to live as Squire of Bragton — and I do not think 
it would suit my taste well — it ought to be so. 
I am the next, and it will be my duty." 

" I am sure you do not want him to die." 

"No, indeed. If I could save him by my 
right hand, if I could save him by my life, I 
would do it." 



"But of all lives it must surely be the best." 
" Do you think so ? What is such a one 

likely to do ? But, then, what do I do as it is ? 

It is the sort of life you would like, if you were a 

man ?" 

"Yes, if I were a man," said Mary. Then 

he again relapsed into silence, and hardly spoke 

again till he left her at her father's door. 



CHAPTER LIX. 



THE LAST EFFORT. 



When Mary reached her home, she was at 
once met by her step-mother in the passage with 
tidings of importance. "He is upstairs in the 
drawing-room," said Mrs. Masters. 

Mary, whose mind was laden with thoughts 
of Reginald Morton, asked who was the he. 

"Lawrence Twentyman," said Mrs. Masters. 
"And now, my dear, do, do think of it before 
you go to him." There was no anger now in 
her step-mother's face, but entreaty, and almost 
love. She had not called Mary " my dear " for 
many weeks past — not since that journe_y to 
Cheltenham. Now she grasped the girl's hand 
as she went on with her prayer. "He is so 
good and so true! And what better can there 
be for j'Ou ? With your advantages, and Lady 
Usliant, and all that, you would be quite the 
lady at Chowton. Think of your father and sis- 
ters — what a good you could do them! and 
think of the respect they all have for him, dining 
with Lord Rutford the other day, and all the 
other gentlemen. It isn't only that he has got 
plenty to live on, but he knows how to keep it 
as a man ought. He's sure to hold up his head, 
and be as good a squire as any of 'em. " 

This was a very different tale — a note alto- 
gether changed ! It must not be said that the 
difference of the tale and the change of the note 
affected Mary's heart; but her step-mother's man- 
ner to her did soften her. And, then, why should 
she regard herself or her own feelings? Like 
others, she had thought much of her own hap- 
piness, had made herself the centre of her own 
circle, had, in her imagination, built castles in 
the ail", and filled them according to her fancy. 
But her fancies had been all shattered into frag- 
ments. Not a stone of her castles was standing. 
She had told herself unconsciously that there 
was no longer a circle, and no need for a centre. 
The last half-hour which she had passed with 
Reginald Morton on the road home had made 
quite sure that which had been sure enough be- 
fore. He was now altogether out of her reach, 
thinking only of the new duties which were com- 
ing to him. She would never walk with him 
again ; never put herself in the way of indulging 
some fragment of an illusory hope. She was 
nothing now — nothing even to herself. Wiiy 
should she not give herself and her services to 
this young man, if the young man chose to take 
her as she was ? It would be well that she should 
do something in the world. Why should she 
not look after his house, and mend his shirts, 
and reign over his poultry-yard ? In this way / 
she would be useful, and respected by all — un- 
less perhaps by the man she loved. "Mary, 
say that you will think of it once more, " pleaded 
Mrs. Masters. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



141 



" I may go upstairs to my own room ?" 

"Certainly; do — go up and smooth your 
hair. I will tell him that you are coming to 
him. He will wait. But he is so much in 
earnest now, and so sad, that I know he will not 
come again." 

Then Mary went upstairs, determined to think 
of it. She began at once, woman-like, to smooth 
her hair as her step-mother had recommended, 
and to remove the dust of the road from her face 
and dress. But not the less was she thinking 
of it the while. Could she do it, how much pain 
would be spared even to herself! How much 
that was now bitter as gall in her mouth would 
become, not sweet, but tasteless ! There are 
times in one's life in which the absence of all 
savor seems to be sufficient for life in this world. 
Were she to do this thing, she thought that she 
would have strength to banish that other man 
from her mind, and at last from her heart. He 
would be there, close to her, but of a different 
kind, and leading a different life. Mrs. Masters 
had told her that Larry would be as good a 
squire as the best of them ; but it should be her 
care to keep him and herself in their proper posi- 
tion, to teach him the vanity of such aspirations. 
And the real squire opposite, who would despise 
her — for had he not told her that she would be 
despicable if she married this man ? — would not 
trouble her then. They might meet on the 
roads, and there would be a cold question or two 
as to each other's welfare, and a vain shaking 
of hands, but they would know nothing, and care 
for nothing, as to each other's thoughts. And 
there would come some stately dame who, hear- 
ing how things had been many years ago, would 
perhaps — But no ; the stately dame should be 
received with courtesy, but there should be no 
patronizing. Even in these few minutes up- 
stairs she thought much of the stately dame, and 
was quite sure that she would endure no patron- 
age from Bragton. 

She almost thought that she could do it. 
There were hideous ideas afflicting her soul 
dreadfully, but which she strove to banish. Of 
course she could not love him — not at first. But 
all those who wished her to marry him, includ- 
ing himself, knew that; and still they wished her 
to marry him. How could that be disgraceful 
which all her fi-iends desired ? Her father, to 
whom she was, as she knew well, the very apple 
of his eye, wished her to marry this man ; and 
yet her father knew that her heart was elsewhere. 
Had not women done it by hundreds, by thou- 
sands, and had afterward performed their duties 
well as mothers and wives ? In other countries, 
as she had read, girls took the husbands found 
for them by their parents as a matter of course. 
As she left the room, and slowly crept down- 
stairs, she almost thought she would do it. She 
almost thought ; but yet, when her hand was on 
the lock, she could not bring herself to say that 
it should be so. 

He was not dressed as usual. In the first 
place, there was a round hat on the table, such 
as men wear in cities. She had never before 
seen such a hat with him except on a Sunday. 
And he wore a black-cloth coat, and dark-brown 
pantaloons, and black -silk handkerchief. She 
observed it all, and thought that he had not 
changed for the better. As she looked into his 
fixce, it seemed to her more common — meaner 



than before. No doubt he was good-looking, 
but his good looks were almost repulsive to her. 
He had altogether lost his little swagger; but 
he had borne that little swagger well, and in her 
presence it had never been offensive. Now he 
seemed as though he had thrown aside all the 
old habits of his life, and was pining to deatli 
from the loss of them. "Mary," he said, "I 
have come to you for the last time. I thought 
I would give myself one more chance, and your 
father told me that I might have it." He paused 
as though expecting an answer. But she had 
not yet quite made up her mind. Had she known 
her mind, she would have answered him franklj-. 
She was quite resolved as to that. If she could 
once bring herself to give him her hand, she would 
not coy it for a moment. "I will be your wife, 
Larry." That was the form on which she had 
determined, should she find herself able to yield. 
But she had not brought herself to it as yet. "If 
you can take me, Mary, you will — well, save me 
from life -long misery, and make the man who 
loves you the best- contented and the happiest 
man in England." 

" But, Larry, I do not love you." 

"I will make you love me. Good usage will 
make a wife love her husband. Don't you think 
you can trust me ?" 

"I do believe that I can trust you for every 
thing good." 

" Is that nothing ?" 

"It is a great deal, Larry, but not enough; 
not enough to bring together a man and wom- 
an as husband and wife. I would sooner marry 
a man I loved, though I knew he would ill-use 
me." 

" Would you ?" 

" To marry either would be wrong." 

"I sometimes think, dearest, that if I could 
talk better I should be able to persuade you." 

"I sometimes think you talk so well that I 
ought to be persuaded ; but I can't. It is not 
lack of talking." 

"What is it, then?" 

" Just this : my heart does not turn itself that 
way. It is the same chance that has made you 
— partial to me." 

' ' Partial ! Why I love the very air you 
breathe. When I am near you, every thing 
smells sweet. There isn't any thing that be- 
longs to you but I think I should know it, though 
I found it a hundred miles away. To have you 
in the room with me would be like heaven — if 
I only knew that you were thinking kindly of 
me." 

" I always think kindly of you, Larry." 

"Then say that you will be my wife." She 
paused, and became red up to the roots of her 
hair. She seated herself on a chair, and then 
rose again, and again sat down. The struggle 
was going on within her, and he perceived some- 
thing of the truth, "Say the word once, Mary; 
say it but once," And, as he prayed to her, he 
came forward and went down upon his knees. 

"I can not do it," she replied at last, speak- 
ing very hoarsely, not looking at him, not even 
addressing herself to him. 

"Mary!" 

"Larry, I can not do it. I have tried, but I 
can not do it. Oh, Larry, dear Larry, do not 
ask me again ! Larry, I have no heart to give. 
Another man has it all." 



142 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



"Is it so?" She bowed her head in token of 
assent. "It is that young parson," exclaimed 
Lany, in anger. 

" It is not. But Larry, you must ask no ques- 
tions now. I have told you my secret, that all 
this might be set at rest. But if you are gen- 
erous, as I know you are, you will keep my se- 
cret, and will ask no questions. And, Lai'ry, if 
you are unhappy, so am I. If your heart is sore, 
so is mine. He knows nothing of my love, and 
cares nothing for me." 

"Then throw him aside." 

She smiled, and shook her head. "Do you 
think I would not if I could ? Why do you not 
throw me aside?" 

"Oh, Mary!" 

"Can not I love as well as you? You are a 
man, and have the liberty to speak of it. Though 
I can not return it, I can be proud of your love, 
and feel grateful to you. I can not tell mine. 
I can not think of it without blushing. But I 
can feel it, and know it, and be as sure that it 
has trodden me down and got the better of me, 
as you can. But you can go out into the world 
and teach yourself to forget." 

" I must go away from here, then." 

"You have your business and your pleasures, 
your horses and your fields, and your friends. I 
have nothing but to remain here and know that 
I have disobliged all those that love me. Do 
you think, Larry, I would not go and be your 
wife if I could ? I have told you all, Larry, and 
now do not ask me again." 

"Is it so?" 

"Yes; it is so." 

' ' Then I shall cut it all. I shall sell Chowton, 
and go away. You tell me I have my horses 
and my pleasures ! What pleasures ? I know 
nothing of my horses — not whether they are 
lame or sound. I could not tell you of one of 
them, whether he is fit to go to-morrow. Busi- 
ness ! The place may farm itself for me, for I 
can't stay there. Every thing sickens me to 
look at it. Pleasures, indeed !" 

" Is that manly, Larry ?" 

"How can a man be manly when the manliness 
is knocked out of him ? A man's courage lies 
in his heart ; but if his heart is broken, where 
will his courage be then? I couldn't hold my 
head up here any more, and I shall go. " 

"You must not do that," she said, getting up 
and laying hold of his arm. 

"But I must do it." 

"For my sake you must stay here, Larry ; so 
that I may not have to think that I have injured 
you so deeply. Larry, though I can not be your 
wife, I think I could die of sorrow if you were 
always unhappy. What is a poor girl that you 
should grieve for her in that way ? I think if I 
were a man I would master my love better than 
that." He shook his head, and faintly strove to 
drag his arm from out of her grasp. " Promise 
me that you will take a year to think of it before 
you go." 

"Will you take a year to think of me?" said 
he, rising again to sudden hope. 

"No, Larry, no. I should deceive you were 
I to say so. I deceived you before when I put 
it off for two months. But you can promise 
me without deceit. For my sake, Larry ?" And 
she almost embraced him as she begged for his 
promise. "I know you would wish to spare 



me pain. Think what will be my sufferings if I 
hear that you have really gone from Chowton. 
You will promise me, Larry ?" 

"Promise what?" 

" That the farm shall not be sold for twelve 
months." 

' ' Oh yes ; I'll promise. I don't care for the 
farm." 

"And stay there if you can. Don't leave the 
place to strangers. And go about your business, 
and hunt, and be a man. I shall always be 
thinking of what you do. I shall always watch 
you. I shall always love you— always — always 
— always. I always have loved you, because 
you are so good. But it is a different love. 
And now, Larry, good-bye." So sa3'ing, she 
raised her face to look into his eyes. Then he 
suddenly put his arm round her waist, kissed her 
forehead, and left the room, Avithout another 
word. 

Mrs. Masters saw him as he went, and must 
have known, from his gait, what was the nature 
of the answer he had received. But yet she 
went quickly upstairs to inquire. The matter 
was one of too much consequence for a mere in- 
ference. Mary had gone from the sitting-room, 
but her step-mother followed her upstairs to her 
bed-chamber. " Mamma," she said, " I couldn't 
do it; I couldn't do it. I did try. Pray do 
not scold me. I did try, but I could not do it," 
Then she threw herself into the arras of the 
unsympathetic woman, who, however, was now 
somewhat less unsympathetic than she had hith- 
erto been, 

Mrs. Masters did not understand it at all ; but 
she did perceive that there was something which 
she could not understand. What did the girl 
mean by saying that she had tried, and could 
not do it ? Try to do it ! If she tried, why 
could she not tell the man that she would have 
him? There was surely some shamefacedness 
in this, some overstrained modesty, which she, 
Mrs. Masters, could not comprehend. How could 
she have tried to accept a man who was so anx- 
ious to marry her, and have failed in. the effort? 
" Scolding, I suppose, will be no good now," she 
said. 

"Oh no!" 

"But — Well, I suppose we must put up 
with it. Every thing on earth that a girl could 
possibly wish for ! He was that in love that it's 
my belief he'd have settled it all on you, if you'd 
only asked him." 

"Let it go, mamma." 

"Let it go! It's gone, I suppose. Well, I 
ain't going to say any more about it. But as 
for not sorrowing, how is a woman not to sor- 
row when so much has been lost? It's your 
poor father I'm thinking of, Mary." This was 
so much better than she had expected that poor 
Mary almost felt that her heart was lightened. 



CHAPTER LX, 

AGAIN AT MISTLETOE. 

The reader will have been aware that Ara- 
bella Trefoil was not a favorite at Mistletoe. 
She was so much disliked by the duchess that 
there had almost been words about her between 
her grace and the duke since her departure. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



143 



The duchess always submitted, and it was the 
rule of her life to submit, with so good a grace 
that her husband, never fearing rebellion, should 
never be driven to assume the tyrant. But on 
this occasion the duke had objected to the term 
"thoroughly bad girl" which had been applied 
by his wife to his niece. He had said that 
"thoroughly bad girl" was strong language; 
and when the duchess defended the phrase, he 
had expressed his opinion that Arabella was only 
a bad girl, and not a thoroughly bad girl. The 
duchess had said that it was the same thing. 
"Then," said the duke, "why use a redundant 
expletive against your own relative ?" The duch- 
ess, when she was accused of strong language, 
had not minded it much ; but her feelings were 
hurt when a redundant expletive was attributed 
to her. The effect of all this had been that the 
duke in a mild way had taken up Arabella's part, 
and that the duchess, following her husband at 
last, had been brought round to own that Ara- 
bella, though bad, had been badly treated. She 
had disbelieved, and had then believed, and had 
again disbelieved Arabella's own statement as to 
the offer of marriage. But the girl had certainly 
been in earnest when she had begged her aunt 
to ask her uncle to speak to Lord Rufford. 
Surely, when she did that, she must have thought 
that an offer had been made to her. Such offer, 
if made, had no doubt been produced by veiy 
hard pressure ; but still, an ofier of marriage is 
an offer ; and a girl, if she can obtain it, has a 
right to use such an offer as so much property. 
Then came Lord Mistletoe's report after his 
meeting with Arabella up in London. He had 
been unable to give his cousin any satisfaction, 
but he was clearly of opinion that she had been 
ill-used. He did not venture to suggest any steps, 
but did think that Lord Rufford was bound as a 
gentleman to marry the young lady. After that 
Lord Augustus saw her mother up in town, and 
said that it was a d — shame. He, in truth, had 
believed nothing, and would have been delighted 
to allow the matter to drop. But as this was 
not permitted, he thought it easier to take his 
daughter's part than to encounter family enmity 
by entering the lists against her. So it came to 
pass that down at Mistletoe there grew an opin- 
ion that Lord Rufford ought to marry Arabella 
Trefoil. 

But what should be done? The duke was alive 
to the feeling that, as the girl was certainly his 
niece, and as she was not to be regarded as a thor- 
oughly bad girl, some assistance was due to her 
from the family. Lord Mistletoe volunteered to 
write to Lord Rufford ; Lord Augustus thought 
that his brother should have a personal interview 
with his young brother peer, and bring his straw- 
berry-leaves to bear. The duke himself suggest- 
ed that the duchess should see Lady Penwether 
— a scheme to which her grace objected strong- 
ly, knowing something of Lady Penwether, and 
being sure that her strawberry-leaves would have 
no effect whatever on the baronet's wife. At last 
it was decided that a family meeting should be 
held, and Lord Augustus was absolutely sum- 
moned to meet Lord Mistletoe at the paternal 
mansion. 

It was now years since Lord Augustus had 
been at Mistletoe. As he had never been sepa- 
rated — that is, formally separated — from his wife, 
he and she had been always invited there togeth- 



er. Year after year she had accepted the invita- 
tion, and it had been declined on his behalf, be- 
cause it did not suit him and his wife to meet 
each other. But now he was obliged to go there 
just at the time of the year when whist at his 
club was most attractive. To meet the conven- 
ience of Lord Mistletoe and the House of Com- 
mons, a Saturday afternoon was named for the 
conference, which made it worse for Lord Au- 
gustus, as he was one of a little party which had 
private gatherings for whist on ■ Sunday after- 
noons. But he went to the conference, traveling 
down by the same train with his nephew; but 
not in the same compartment, as he solaced with 
tobacco the time which Lord Mistletoe devoted 
to Parliamentary erudition. 

The four met in her grace's boudoir, and the 
duke began by declaring that all this was very 
sad. Lord Augustus shook his head and put 
his hands in his trousers - pockets — which was 
as much as to say that his feelings as a British 
parent were almost too strong for him. "Your 
mother and I think that something ought to be 
done," said the duke, turning to his son. 

"Something ought to be done," said Lord 
Mistletoe. 

"They won't let a fellow go out with a fellow 
now," said Lord Augustus. 

"Heaven forbid!" said the duchess, raising 
both her hands. 

"I was thinking, Mistletoe, that your mother 
might have met Lady Penwethe'r. " 

"What could I do with Lady Penwether, 
duke ? Or what could she do with him ? A man 
won't care for what his sister says to him. And 
I don't suppose she'd undertake to speak to Lord 
Rufford on the subject." 

"Lady Penwether is an honorable and ac- 
complished woman." 

"I dare say; though she gives herself abom- 
inable airs. " 

" Of course, if you don't like it, my dear, it 
sha'n't be pressed." 

" I thought, perhaps, you'd see him yourself," 
said Lord Augustus, turning to his brother. 
" You'd carry more weight than any body." 

"Of course I will, if it be necessary; but it 
would be disagreeable — veiy disagreeable. The 
appeal should be made to his fedlings, and that, 
I think, would better come through female influ- 
ence. As tar as I knoAv the world, a man is al- 
ways more prone to be led in such matters by a 
woman than by another man. " 

" If you mean me," said the duchess, " I don't 
think I could see him. Of course, Augustus, I 
don't wish to say any thing hard of Arabella. 
The fact that we have all met here to take her 
part will prove that, I think. But I didn't quite 
approve of all that was done here." 

Lord Augustus stroked his beard and looked 
out of the window. ' ' I don't think, my dear, 
we need go into that just now," said the duke. 

"Not at all," said the duchess, "and I don't 
intend to say a w-ord. Only if I were to meet 
Lord Rufford he might refer to things which — 
which — which — In point of fact, I had rather 
not." 

"I might see him, "suggested Lord Mistletoe, 

"No doubt that might be done with advan- 
tage," said the duke. 

" Only that, as he is my senior in age, what I 
might say to him would lack that weight which 



144 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



any observations which might be made on such 
a matter should carry with them." 

"He didn't care a straw for me," said Lord 
Augustus. 

"And then," continued Lord Mistletoe, "I 
so completely agree with what my father says as 
to the advantage of female influence! With a 
man of Lord Rufford's temperament, female in- 
fluence is every thing. If my aunt were to try 
it ?" Lord Augustus blew the breath out of his 
mouth and raised his eyebrows. Knowing what 
he did of his wife, or thinking that he knew what 
he did, he did not conceive it possible that a 
worse messenger should be chosen. He had 
known himself to be a very bad one, but he did 
honestly believe her to be even less fitted for the 
task than he himself. But he said nothing, sim- 
ply wishing that he had not left his whist for 
such a purpose as this. 

"Perhaps Lady Augustus had better see him," 
said the duke. The duchess, who did not love 
hypocrisy, would not actually assent to this, but 
she said nothing. "I suppose my sister-in-law 
would not object, Augustus ?" 

" God Almighty only knows," said the young- 
er brother. The duchess, grievously offended by 
the impropriety of this language, drew herself 
up haughtily. 

"Perhaps you would not mind suggesting it 
to her, sir," said Lord Mistletoe. 

"I could do that by letter," said the duke. 

"And when she has assented, as of course 
she will, then perhaps you wouldn't mind writing 
a line to him to make an appointment. If you 
were to do so, he could not refuse." To this 
proposition the duke returned no immediate an- 
swer, but looked at it round and round carefully. 
At last, however, he acceded to this also, and so 
the matter was arranged. All these influential 
members of the ducal family met together at the 
ducal mansion on Arabella's behalf, and settled 
their difiiculty by deputing the work of bearding 
the lion, of tying the bell on the cat, to an absent 
lady whom they all despised and disliked. 

That afternoon the duke, with the assistance 
of his son, who was a great writer of letters, pre- 
pared an epistle to his sister-in-law, and another 
to Lord Rufford, which was to be sent" as soon 
as Lady Augustus had agreed to the arrange- 
ment. In the former letter a good deal was said 
as to a mother's solicitude for her daughter. It 
had been felt, the letter said, that no one could 
speak for a daughter so well as a mother ; that 
no other's words would so surely reach the lieart 
of a man who was not all evil, but who was 
tempted by the surroundings of the world to do 
evil in this particular case. The letter began, 
"My dear sister-in-law, "and ended "Your af- 
fectionate brother-in-law, Mayfair," and was in 
fact the first letter that the duke had ever writ- 
ten to his brother's wife. The other letter was 
more difficult ; but it was accomplished at last, 
and confined itself to a request that Lord Ruftbrd 
would meet Lady Augustus Trefoil at a place 
and at a time, both of which were for the pres- 
ent left blank. 

On the Monday Lord Augustus and Lord 
Mistletoe were driven to the station in the same 
carriage, and on this occasion the uncle said a 
few strong words to liis nephew on the subject. 
Lord Augustus, though perhaps a coward in the 
presence of his brother, was not so with other 



members of the family. "It may be very well, 
you know J but it's all d — nonsense." 

"I'm Sony that you should think so, uncle." 

"What do you suppose her mother can do — a 
thoroughly vulgar woman ? I never could live 
with her. As fiir as I can see, wherever she 
goes every body hates her." 

"My dear uncle!" 

" Ruiford will only laugh at her. If Mayfair 
would have gone himself, it is just possible that 
he might have done something." 

"My fiither is so unwilling to mix himself up 
in these things." 

" Of course he is. Every body knows that. 
What the deuce was the good, then, of our going 
down there? I couldn't do any thing, and I 
knew he wouldn't. The truth is. Mistletoe, a 
man nowadays may do just what he pleases. 
You ain't in that line, and it won't do you any 
good knowing it. Bi^t since we did away with 
pistols every body may do just what he likes." 

' ' I don't like brute force, " said Lox"d Mistle- 
toe. 

' You may call it what you please; but I 
don't know that it was so brutal, after all." At 
the station they separated again, as Lord Augus- 
tus was panting for tobacco, and Lord Mistletoe 
for Parliamentary erudition. 



CHAPTER LXI. 

THE SUCCESS OF LADY AUGUSTUS. 

Lady Augustus was still staying with the 
Connop Greens in Hampshire when she re- 
ceived the duke's letter, and Arabella was with 
her. The story of Lord Rufford's infidelity had 
been told to Mrs. Connop Green, and of course 
through her to Mr. Connop Green. Both the 
mother and daughter affected to despise the 
Connop Greens ; but it is so bard to restrain 
one's self from confidences when difficulties 
arise ! Arabella had by this time quite per- 
suaded herself that there had been an absolute 
engagement, and did in truth believe that she 
had been most cruelly ill-used. She was head- 
strong, fickle, and beyond measure insolent to 
her mother. She had, as we know, at one time 
gone down to the house of her former lover, 
thereby indicating that she had abandoned all 
hope of catching Lord Ruiford. But still the 
Connop Greens either felt, or pretended to feel, 
great sympathy with her, and she would still de- 
clare from time to time that Lord Rufford had 
not heard the last of her. It was now more 
than a month since she had seen that perjured 
lord at Mistletoe, and more than a week since 
her father had brought him so uselessly up to 
London. Thougli determined that Lord Rufford 
should hear more of her, she hardly knew how to 
go to work, and on these days spent most of her 
time in idle denunciations of her false lover. 
Then came her uncle's letter, which was of 
course shown to her. 

She was quite of opinion that they must do as 
the duke directed. It was so great a thing to 
have the duke interesting himself in the matter, 
that she would have assented to any thing pro- 
posed by him. The suggestion even inspired 
some temporary respect, or at any rate observ- 
ance, toward her mother. Hitherto her mother 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



145 



had been nobody to her in the matter — a person 
belonging to her, whom she had to regard simply 
as a burden. She could not at all understand 
liow the duke had been guided in making such 
a choice of a new emissary ; but theie it was, 
under his own hand, and she must now in some 
measure submit herself to her mother, unless she 
were prepared to repudiate altogether the duke's 
assistance. As to Lady Augustus herself, the 
suggestion gave to her quite a new life. She 
had no clear conception what she should say to 
Lord Ruffbrd if the meeting were arranged, but 
it was gratifying to her to find herself brought 
back into authority over her daughter. She 
read the duke's letter to Mrs. Connop Green, 
with certain very slight additions — or innuendoes 
as to additions — and was pleased to find that the 
letter was taken by Mrs. Connop Green as posi- 
tive proof of the existence of the engagement. 
She wrote begging the duke to allow her to have 
the meeting at the family house in Piccadilly, 
and to this praj'er the duke was obliged to as- 
sent. " It would," she said, "give her so much 
assistance in speaking to Lord Rufibrd ! " She 
named a day also, and then spent her time in 
preparing herself for the interview by counsel 
with Mrs. Green, and by exacting explanations 
from her daughter. 

This was a very bad time for Arabella — so 
bad that, had slie known to what she would be 
driven, she would probably have repudiated the 
duke and her mother altogether. "Now, my 
dear," she began, " yon must tell me every 
thing that occurred, first at Rufford, and then at 
Mistletoe." 

"You know very well what occurred, mam- 
ma." 

" I know nothing about it; and, unless eveiy 
thing is told me, I will not undertake this mis- 
sion. Your uncle evidently thinks that by my 
interference the thing may be arranged. 1 have 
had the same idea all through myself, but as you 
have been so obstinate, I have not liked to say 
so. Now, Arabella, begin from the beginning. 
When was it that he first suggested to you the 
idea of marriage ?" 

" Good heavens, mamma !" 

"I must have it from the beginning to the 
end. Did he speak of marriage at Ruftbrd ? I 
suppose he did, because you told me that you 
were engaged to him when you went to Mistle- 
toe." 

"So I was." 

"What had he said?" 

"What nonsense! How am I to remember 
what he said ? As if a girl ever knows what a 
man says to her ! " 

"Did he kiss you?" 

"Yes." 

"AtRufFord?" 

"I can not stand this, mamma. If you like 
to go, you m^y go. My uncle seems to think it 
is the best thing, and so I suppose it ought to be 
don6. But I won't answer such questions as 
you are asking, for Lord Rufford and all that he 
possesses." 

"What am I to say, then ? How am I to call 
back to his recollection the fact that he com- 
mitted himself, unless you will tell me how and 
when he did so ?" 

" Ask him if he did not assure me of his love 
when we ivere in the carriage together." 
10 



"What carriage?" 

" Coming home from hunting " 

" Was that at Mistletoe or Rufford ?" 

"At Mistletoe, mamma," replied Arabella, 
stamping her foot. 

" But you must let me know how it was that 
you became engaged to him at Rufford." 

"Mamma, you mean to drive me mad!" ex- 
claimed Arabella, as she bounced out of the 
room. 

There was very much more of this, till at last 
Arabella found herself compelled to invent facts. 
Lord Rufford, she said, had assured her of his 
everlasting affection in the little room at Ruf- 
ford, and had absolutely asked her to be his wife 
coming home in the carriage with her to Stam- 
ford. She told herself that, though this was 
not strictly true, it was as good as true — as that 
which was actually done and said by Lord Ruf- 
ford on those occasions could have had no other 
meaning. But before her mother had completed 
her investigation, Arabella had become so sick 
of the matter that she shut herself up in her 
room, and declared that nothing on earth should 
induce her to open her mouth on the subject 
again. 

When Lord Rufford received the letter, he was 
aghast with new disgust. He had begun to flat- 
ter himself that his inteiTiew with Lord Augus- 
tus would be the end of the affair. Looking at 
it by degrees with coolness, he had allowed him- 
self to think that nothing very terrible could be 
done to him. Some few people particularly in- 
terested in the Mistletoe family might give him 
a cold shoulder, or perhaps cut him directly; 
but such people would not belong to his own pe- 
culiar circle, and the annoyance would not be 
great. But if all the family, one after another, 
were to demand inteiTiews with him up in Lon- 
don, he did not see when the end of it woi^ld be. 
There would be the duke himself, and the duch- 
ess, and Mistletoe. And the affair would in this 
way become gossip for the whole town. He was 
almost minded to write to the duke saying that 
such an inteiTiew could do no good ; but at last 
he thought it best to submit the matter to his 
mentor, Su* George Penwether. Sir George was 
clearly of opinion that it was Lord Rufford's duty 
to see Lady Augustus. "Yes, you must have 
interviews with, all of them, if they ask it," said 
Sir George. "You must show that you are not 
afraid to hear what her friends have got to say. 
When a man gets wrong, he can't put himself 
right without some little annoyance." 

"Since the world began," said Lord Rufford, 
" I don't think that there was ever a man born 
so well adapted for preaching sermons as you 
are." Nevertheless, he did as he was bid, and 
consented to meet Lady Augustus in Piccadilly 
on the day named by her. On that very day the 
hounds met at Impington, and Lord Rufford be- 
gan to feel his punishment. He assented to the 
proposal made, and went up to London, leaving 
the members of the U. R. U. to have the run of 
the season from the Impington coverts. 

When Lady Augustus was sitting in the back 
room of the mansion waiting for Lord Rufford, 
she was veiy much puzzled to think what she 
would say to him when he came. With all her 
investigation, she had received no clear idea of 
the circumstances as they occurred. That her 
daughter had told her a fib in saying that she 



146 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



was engaged when she went to Mistletoe, she 
was all but certain. That something had occur- 
red in the carriage which might be taken for an 
offer, she thought possible. She therefore deter- 
mined to harp upon the carriage as much as pos- 
sible, and to say as little as might be as to the 
doings at Rufford. Then, as she was trying to 
arrange her countenance and her dress and her 
voice, ,so that they might tell on his feelings, Lord 
Rufford was announced. "Lady Augustus," 
said he at once, beginning the lesson which he 
had taught himself, "I hope I see you quite well. 
I have come here because you have asked me, but 
I really don't know that I have any thing to say." 

" Lord Rufford, you must hear me." 

" Oh yes, I will hear you, certainly ; only this 
kind of thing is so painful to all parties, and I 
don't see the use of it." 

"Are you aware that j'ou have plunged me 
and my daughter into a state of misery too deep 
to be fathomed ?" 

" I should be sorry to think that." 

"How can it be otherwise? When you as- 
sure a girl in her position in life that you love 
her — a lady whose rank is quite as high as your 
own — " 

" Quite so, quite so." 

"And when, in return for that assurance, you 
have received vows of love from her, what is she 
to think, and what are her friends to think?" 
Lord Rufford had always kept in his mind a clear 
remembrance of the transaction in the carriage, 
and was well aware that the young lady's moth- 
er had inverted the circumstances, or, as he ex- 
pressed it to himself, had put the cart before the 
horse. He had assured the young lady that he 
loved her, and he had also been assured of her 
love ; but her assurance had come first. He felt 
that this made all the difference in the world ; so 
muc^ difference that no one cognizant in such 
matters would hold that his assurance, obtained 
after such a fashion, meant any thing at all. But 
how was he to explain this to the lady's moth- 
er? " You will admit that such assurances were 
given ?" continued Lady Augustus. 

"Upon my word, I don't know. There was 
a little foolish talk, but it meant nothing." 

"My lord!" 

"What am I to say? I don't want to give 
offense, and I am heartily sorry that you and 
your daughter should be under any misapprehen- 
sion. But, as I sit here, there was no engage- 
ment between us ; nor, if I must speak out, Lady 
Augustus, could your daughter have thought that 
there was an engagement." 

" Did you not — embrace her ?" 

"I did. That's the truth." 

"And after that you mean to say — " 

"After that I mean to say that nothing more 
was intended." There was a certain meanness 
of appearance about the mother which embold- 
ened him. 

"What a declaration to make to the mother 
of a young lady, and that young lady the niece 
of the DukeofMayfair!" 

" It's not the first time such a thing has been 
done, Lady Augustus." 

"I know nothing about that — nothing. I 
don't know whom you may have lived with. It 
never was done to her before." 

"If I understand right, she was engaged to 
marry Mr. Morton when she came to Rufford." 



"It was all at an end before that." 

" At any rate, you both came from his house." 

"Where we had been staying with Mrs. Mor- 
ton." 

" And where she has been since, without Mrs. 
Morton." 

"Lady Ushant was there. Lord Rufford," 

" But she has been staying at the house of 
this gentleman, to whom you admit that she was 
engaged a short time before she came to us." 

" He is on his death-bed, and he thought that 
he had behaved badly to her. She did go to 
Bragton the other day, at his request, merely 
that she might say that she forgave him." 

"I only hope that she will forgive me too. 
There is really nothing else to be said. If there 
were any thing I could do to atone to her for 
this — trouble." 

"If you only could know the brightness of 
the hopes you have shattered, and the purity of 
that girl's affection for yourself!" 

It was then that an idea — a low-minded idea 
— occurred to Lord Rufford. While all this M'as 
going on, he had of course made various inqui- 
ries about this branch of the Trefoil fiimily, and 
had learned that Arabella was altogether portion- 
less. He was told, too, that Lady Augustus was 
much harassed by impecuniosity. Might it be 
possible to offer a recompense? " If I could do 
any thing else, Lady Augustus ; but, really, I am 
not a marrying man." 

Then Lady Augustus wept bitterly ; but while 
she was weeping, a low-minded idea occurred to 
her also. It was clear to her that there could 
be no marriage. She had never expected that 
there would be a marriage. But if this man, 
who was rolling in wealth, should offer some sum 
of money to her daughter, something so consid- 
erable as to divest the transaction of the mean- 
ness which would be attached to a small bribe, 
something whicii might be really useful through- 
out life, would it not be her duty, on behalf of 
her dear child, to accept such an offer ? But the 
beginnings of such dealings are always difficult. 
"Couldn't my lawyer see yours, Lady Augus- 
tus ?" said Lord Rufford. 

" I don't want the family lawyer to know any 
thing about it," said Lady Augustus. Then 
there was silence between them for a few mo- 
ments. " You don't know what we have to 
bear, Lord Rufford. My husband has spent all 
my fortune, which was considerable, and the duke 
does nothing for us." Then he took a bit of pa- 
per, and, writing on it the figures "£6000," push- 
ed it across the table. She gazed at the scrap 
for a minute, and then, borrowing his pencil 
without a word, scratched out his lordship's fig- 
ures and wrote "£8000" beneath them; and 
then added, "No one to know it." 

After that he held the scrap for two or three 
minutes in his hands, and then wrote beneath 
the figures, "Very well. To be settled on your 
daughter. No one shall know it." She bowed 
her head, but kept the scrap of paper in her pos- 
session. "Shall I ring for your carriage?" he 
asked. The bell was rung, and Lady Augustus 
was taken back to the lodgings in Orchard Street 
in the hired brougham. As she went, she told 
herself that if every thing else failed, four hun- 
dred pounds a year would support her daughter, 
or, that in the event of any further matrimonial 
attempt, such a fortune Avould be a great assist- 



THE AMEKICAN SENATOR. 



147 



ance. She had been sure that there could be 
no marriage, and was disposed to think that she 
had done a good morning's work on behalf of 
her unnatural child. 



CHAPTER LXII. 

"■WE SHALL KILL EACH OTHER." 

Lady Augustus, as she was driven back to 
Orchard Street, and as she remained alone dur- 
ing the rest of that day and the next in London, 
became a little afraid of what she had done. 
She began to think how she should communicate 
her tidings to her daughter, and, thinking of it, 
grew to be nervous and ill at ease. How would 
it be with her, should Arabella still cling to the 
hope of marrying the lord ? That any such hope 
would be altogether illusory. Lady Augustus was 
now sure. She had been quite certain that there 
was no gi'ound for such hope when she had spo- 
ken to the man of her own poverty. She was 
almost certain that there had never been an oiFer 
of marriage made. In the first place. Lord Ruf- 
ford's "word Avenl fixrther with her tlian Arabel- 
la's, and then his story had been consistent and 
probable, whereas hers had been inconsistent 
and improbable. At any rate, ropes and horses 
would not bring Lord Rufford to the hymeneal 
altar. That being so, was it not natural that 
she should then have considered what result 
would be next best to a marriage? She was 
very poor, having saved only some few hundreds 
a year from the wreck of her own fortune. In- 
dependently of her, her daughter had nothing. 
And, in spite of this poverty, Arabella was very 
extravagant, running up bills for finery without 
remorse wherever credit could be found, and ex- 
cusing herself by saying that on this or that oc- 
casion such expenditure was justified by the mat- 
rimonial prospects which it opened out to her. 
And now, of late, Arabella had been talking of 
living separately from her mother. Lady Au- 
gustus, who was thoroughly tired of her daugh- 
ter's company, was not at all averse to such a 
sclieme ; but any such scheme was impracticable 
without money. By a happy accident, the mon- 
ey would now be forthcoming. Tliere Avould be 
four hundred pounds a year forever, and nobody 
would know whence it came. She was confident 
that they might trust to the lord's honor for se- 
crecy. As far as her own opinion went, the re- 
sult of the transaction would be most happy. 
But still she feared Arabella. She felt that she 
would not know how to tell her story when she 
got back to Marygold Place. " My dear, he 
won't marry you ; but he is to give you eight 
thousand pounds." That was what she would 
have to say, but she doubted her own courage to 
put her story into words so curt and explanatory. 
Even at thirty, four hundred pounds a year has 
not the charms which accompany it to eyes which 
liave seen sixty years. She remained in town 
that night and the next day, and went down by 
train to Basingstoke on the following morning 
Avith her heart not altogether free from trepida- 
tion. 

Lord RulFord, the very moment that the in- 
terview was over, started oif to his lawyer. 
Considering how very little had been given to 
him, the sum he was to pay was prodigious. In 



his desire to get rid of the bore of these appeals, 
he had allowed himself to be foolishly generous. 
He certainly never would kiss a young lady in a. 
carriage again, nor even lend a horse to a young 
lady, till he was better acquainted with her am- 
bition and character. But the word had gone 
from him, and he must be as good as his word. 
The girl must have her eight thousand pounds, 
and must have it instantly. He would put the 
matter into such a position that, if any more in- 
terviews were suggested, he might with perfect 
safety refer the suggester back to Miss Trefoil. 
There was to be secrecy, and he would be secret 
as the grave. But in such matters one's lawyer 
is the grave. He had proposed that two lawyers 
should arrange it. Objection had been made 
to this, because Lady Augustus had no lawyer 
ready ; but on his side some one must be em- 
ployed. So he went to his own solicitor, and 
begged that the thing might be done quite at 
once. He was very definite in his instructions, 
and would listen to no doubts. Would the law- 
yer write to Miss Trefoil on that very day — or, 
rather, not on that very day, but the next? As 
he suggested this, he thought it well that Lady 
Augustus should have an opportunity of explain- 
ing the transaction to her daugliter before the 
lawyer's letter should be received. He had, he 
said, his own reason for such haste. Conse- 
quently, the lawyer did prepare the letter to Miss 
Trefoil at once, drafting it in his noble client's 
presence. In what way should the money be 
disposed so as best to suit her convenience ? The 
lettei" was very short, with an intimation that 
Lady Augustus would no doubt have explained 
the details of the arrangement. 

When Lady Augustus reached Marygold, the 
family were at lunch, and, as strangers were 
present, nothing was said as to the great mis- 
sion. The mother had already bethought her- 
self how she must tell this and that lie to the Con- 
nop Greens, explaining that Lord Ruflford had 
confessed his iniquity, but had disclosed that, for 
certain mysterious reasons, he could not marry 
Arabella, though he loved her better than all the 
world. Arabella asked some questions about 
her mother's shopping and general business in 
town, and did not leave the room till she could 
do so without the slightest appearance of anxiety. 
Mrs. Connop Green marveled at her coolness, 
knowing how much must depend on the answer 
which her mother had brought back from Lon- 
don, and knowing nothing of the contents of the 
letter which Arabella had received that morning 
from the lawyer. In a moment or two. Lady 
Augustus followed her daughter upstairs, and 
on going into her own room found the damsel 
standing in the middle of it with an open paper 
in her hand. "Mamma," she said, "shut the 
door." Then the door was closed. "What is 
the meaning of this ?" and she held out the law- 
yer's letter. 

"The meaning of what?" said Lady Augus- 
tus, trembling. 

" I have no doubt you know, but you had bet- 
ter read it." 

Lady Augustus read the letter, and attempted 
to smile. "He has been very quick," she said. 
"I thought I should have been the first to tell 
you." 

"What is the meaning of it? Why is the 
man to give me all that money ?" 



148 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



"Is it not a good escape from so great a 
trouble ? Think what eight thousand pounds 
will do. It will enable you to live in comfort 
wherever you may please to go." 

"I am to understand, then, you have sold me 
— sold all my hopes, and my very name and char- 
acter, for eight thousand pounds ?" 

"Your name and character will not be touch- 
ed, my dear. As for his maiTying you, I soon 
found that that was absolutely out of the ques- 
tion." 

"This is what has come of sending you to see 
him? Of course I shall tell my uncle every 
thing." 

"You will do no such thing, Arabella, do 
not make a fool of yourself ! Do you know what 
eight thousand pounds will do for you ? It is to 
be your own — absolutely beyond my reach or 
your father's." 

"I would sooner go into the .Thames oiF Wa- 
terloo Bridge than touch a farthing of his mon- 
ey!" said Arabella, with a spirit which the other 
woman did not at all understand. Hitherto in 
all these little dirty ways they had run with equal 
steps. The pretenses, the subterfuges, the lies 
of the one had always been open to the other. 
Arabella, earnest in supplying herself with gloves 
from the pockets of her male acquaintances, had 
endured her mother's tricks with complacency. 
She had condescended, when living in humble 
lodgings, to date her letters from a well-known 
hotel, and had not feared to declare that she had 
done so in their family conversations. Together 
they l^ad fished in turbid waters for marital nib- 
bles, and had told mutual falsehoods to unbeliev- 
ing tradesmen. And yet the younger woman, 
when tempted with a bribe worth lies and tricks 
as deep and as black as Acheron, now stood on 
her dignity and her purity, and stamped her foot 
with honest indignation ! 

"I don't think you can understand it," said 
Lady Augustus. 

"I can understand this — that you have be- 
trayed me, and that I shall tell him so in the 
plainest words that I can use. To get his law- 
yer to write and offer me money!" 

"He should not have gone to his lawyer. I 
do think he was wrong there." 

"But you settled it with him — you, my moth- 
er — a price at which he should buy himself off! 
"Would he have oiFered me money if he did not 
know that he had bound himself to me?" 

"Nothing on earth would make him marry 
you. I would not for a moment have allowed 
him to allude to money if that had not been 
quite certain." 

" Who proposed the money first ?" 

Lady Augustus considered a moment before 
she answered. "Upon my word, my dear, I 
can't say. He wrote the figures on a bit of pa- 
per ; that was the way." Then she produced 
the scrap. "He wrote the figures first, and 
then I altered them, just as you see. The prop- 
osition came fii'st from him, of course." 

"And you did not spit at him !" said Arabel- 
la, as she tore the scrap into fragments. 

"Arabella," said the mother, "it is clear that 
you do not look into the future. How do you 
mean to live ? You are getting old. " 

"Old!" 

"Yes, my love, old. Of course I am willing 
to do every thing for you, as I always have done 



for so many years, but there isn't a man in Lon- 
don who does not know how long you have been 
about it." 

"Hold your tongue ! mamma," said Arabella, 
jumping up. 

"That is all very well, but the truth has to be 
spoken. You and I can not go on as we have 
been doing." 

"Certainly not. I would sooner be in a 
work-house." 

"And here there is provided for yon an in- 
come on which you can live. Not a soul will 
know any thing about it. Even your own father 
need not be told. As for the lawyer, that is 
nothing. They never talk of things' It would 
make a man comparatively poor quite a fit 
match. Or, if you do not marry, it would ena- 
ble you to live where you pleased, independently 
of me. You had better think twice of it before 
you refuse it." 

"I will not think of it at all. As sure as I am 
here, I will write to Euftbrd this very evening 
and tell him in what light I regard both him and 
you." 

"And what will you do then ?" 

"Hang myself." 

"That is all very well, Arabella, but hang- 
ing yourself and jumping off Waterloo Bridge do 
not mean any thing. You must live, and you 
must pay your debts. I can't pay them for you. 
You go into your own room and think of it' all, 
and be thankful for what Providence has sent 
you." 

" You may as well understand that I am in 
earnest," the daughter said, as she left the room. 
"I shall write to Lord Ruflbrd to-day and tell 
him what I think of him and his money. You 
need not trouble yourself as to what shall be done 
with it, for I certainly shall not take it." 

And she did write to Lord Euftbrd as follows : 

"My Lokd, — I haA-e been much .istonished 
by a letter I have received from a gentleman 
in London, Mr. Shaw, who, I presume, is your 
lawyer. When I received it, I had not as yet 
seen mamma. I now understand that you and 
she between you have determined that I should 
be compensated by a sum of money for the inju- 
ry you have done me ! I scorn your money. I 
can not think where you found the audacity to 
make such a proposal, or how you have taught 
yourself to imagine that I should listen to it. 
As to mamma, she was not commissioned to act 
for me, and I have nothing to do with any thing 
she may have said. I can hardly believe that 
she should have agreed to such a proposal. It 
was very little like a gentleman in you to offer it. 

"Why did j'ou offer it ? You would not have 
proposed to give me a large sum of money like 
that without some reason. I have been shocked 
to hear that you have denied that you ever en- 
gaged yourself to me. You know that you were 
engaged to me. It would have been more hon- 
•est and more manly if you had declared at once 
that you repented of your engagement. But the 
truth is that, till I see you myself and hear what 
you have to say out of your own mouth, I can 
not believe what other people tell me. I must 
ask you to name some place where we can meet. 
As for this offer of money, it goes for nothing. 
You must have known that I would not take it. 
"Arabella." 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



149 



It was now just the end of February, and the 
visit of the Trefoil ladies to the Connop Greens 
had to come to an end. They had aheady over- 
staid the time at first arranged, and Lady Au- 
gustus, when she hinted that another week at 
Marygold — "just till this painful affair was final- 
ly settled " — would be beneficial to her, was in- 
formed that the Connop Greens themselves were 
about to leave home. Lady Augustus had report- 
ed to Mrs. Connop Green that Lord Rufford was 
behaving very badly, but that the matter was still 
in a "transition state." Mrs. Connop Green 
was very sorry, but — So Lady Augustus and 
Arabella betook themselves to Orchard Street, 
being at that moment unable to enter in upon 
better quarters. 

What a home it was — and what a journey up 
to town ! Arabella had told her mother that the 
letter to Lord Rufford had been written and post- 
ed, and since tliat hardly a word had passed be- 
tween them. When they left Marygold in the 
Connop Green carriage, they smiled, and shook 
hands, and kissed their friends in unison, and 
then sunk back into silence. At the station they 
walked up and down the platform together for 
the sake of appearance, but did not speak. In 
the train there were others with them, and they 
both feigned to be asleep. Then they were driven 
to their lodgings in a cab, still speechless. It 
was the mother who first saw that the horror of 
this, if continued, would be too great to be en- 
dured. "Arabella," she said, in a hoarse voice, 
" why don't you speak ?" 

"Because I've got nothing to say." 

"That's nonsense. There is always some- 
thing to say." 

"You have ruined me, mamma; just ruined 
me." 

"I did for you the very best I could. If you 
would have been advised by me, instead of being 
ruined, you would-have had a handsome fortune. 
I have slaved for you for the last twelve years. 
No mother ever sacrificed herself for her. child 
more than I have done for you, and now see the 
return I get, I sometimes think that it will kill 
me." 

"That's nonsense." 

"Every thing I say is nonsense, while you tell 
me one day tliat joa are going to hang yourself, 
and another day that you will drown yourself." 

" So I would if I dared. What is it that you 
have brought me to ? Who will have me in their 
houses when they hear that you consented to take 
Lord Rufford's money ?" 

"Nobody will hear it unless youXell them." 

"I shall tell my uncle and my aunt and Mistle- 
toe, in order that they may know how it is that 
Lord Rufford has been allowed to escape. I say 
that you have ruined me. If it had not been for 
your vulgar bargain with him, he must have been 
brought to keep his word at last. Oh that he 
should have ever thought it possible that I was 
to be bought off for a sum of money!" 

Later on in the evening the mother again im- 
plored her daughter to speak to her. "What's 
the use, mamma, when you know what we think 
of each other. What's the good of pretending ? 
There is nobody here to hear us." Later on still, 
she herself began. "I don't know how much 
you've got, mamma ; but whatever it is, we'd 
better divide it. After what you did in Picca- 
dilly, we shall never get on together again." 



"There is not enough to divide," said Lady 
Augustus. 

" If I had not you to go about with me, I could 
get taken in pretty nearly all the year round." 

"Who'd take you?" 

" Leave that to me. I would manage it, and 
you could join with some other old person. We 
shall kill each other if we stay like this," said 
Arabella, as she took up her candle. 

"You have pretty nearly killed me as it is," 
said the old woman, as the other shut the door. 



CHAPTER LXIII. 

CHANGES AT BKAGTON. 

Day after day old Mrs. Morton urged her pur- 
pose with her grandson at Bragton, not qmte 
directly as she had done at first, but by gradxlal 
approaches and little soft attempts, made in the 
midst of all the tenderness which, as a nurse, she 
was able to display. It soon came to pass that 
the intruders were banished from the house, or 
almost banished. Mary's daily visits were dis- 
continued immediately after that last walk home 
with Reginald Morton which has been described. 
Twice in the course of the next week she went 
over, but on both occasions she did so early in 
the day, and returned alone just as he was reach- 
ing the house. And then, before a week was 
over, early in March, Lady Ushant told the inva- 
lid that she would be better away. " Mrs. Mor- 
ton doesn't like me," she said, " and I had better 
go. But I shall stay for a while at Hoppet Hall, 
and come in and see you from time to time till 
you get better." 

John Morton replied that he should never get 
better ; but though he said so then, there was at 
times evidence that he did not yet quite despond 
as to himself. He could still talk to Mrs. Morton 
of buying Chowton Farm, and was very anxious 
that he should not be forgotten at the Foreign 
OflSce. 

Lady Ushant had herself driven to Hoppet 
Hall, and there took up her residence with her 
nephew. Every other day Mr. Runciman's fly 
came for her, and carried her backward and for- 
ward to Bragton. On those occasions she would 
remain an hour with the invalid, and then would 
go back again, never even seeing Mrs. Morton, 
though always seen by her. And twice after this 
banishment Reginald walked over. But on the 
second occasion there was a scene. Mrs. Mor- 
ton, to whom he had never spoken since he was 
a boy, met him in the hall and told him that his 
visits only disturbed his sick cousin. 

"I certainly will not disturb him," Reginald 
had said. 

"In the condition in which he is now, he 
should not see many people," rejoined the lady. 
' ' If you will ask Dr. Fanning, he will tell you 
the same." 

Dr. Fanning was the London doctor, who 
came down once a week, whom it was improbable 
that Reginald should have an opportunity of con- 
sulting. But he remembered, or thought that he 
remembered, that his cousin had been fretful and 
ill-pleased during his last visit, and so turned 
himself round and went home without another 
word. 

"I am afraid there may be — I don't know 



150 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



what," said Lady Ushant to him in a whisper the 
next morning. 

" What do you mean ?" 

"I don't know what I mean. Perhaps I 
ought not to say a word. Only so much does 
depend on it!" 

" If you are thinking about the property, aunt, 
wipe it out of your mind. Let him do what he 
pleases, and don't think about it. No one should 
trouble their minds about such things. It is his, 
to do what he pleases with it." 

" It is not him that I fear, Reginald." 

" If he chooses to be guided by her, who shall 
say that he is wrong? Get it out of your mind. 
The very thinking about such things is dirti- 
ness!" The poor old lady submitted to the re- 
buke, and did not dare to say another word. 

Daily Lady Ushant would send over for Mary 
Masters, thinking it cruel that her young friend 
should leave her alone, and yet understanding 
in part the reason why Mary did not come to 
her constantly at Hoppet Hall. Poor Mary was 
troubled much by. these messages. Of course 
she went now and again. She had no alternative 
but to go, and yet, feeling that the house was his 
house, she was most unwilling to enter it. Then 
grew within her a feeling, which she could not 
analyze, that he had ill-used her. Of course she 
was not entitled to his love. She would ac- 
knowledge to hei'self over and over again that he 
had never spoken a word to her which could 
justify her in expecting his love. But why had 
he not let her alone ? Why had he striven, by 
his words and his society, to make her other than 
she would have been had she been left to the 
atmosphere of her step -mother's home? Why 
had he spoken so strongly to her as to that 
young man's love? And then she was almost 
angry with him because, by a turn in the wheel 
of fortune, he was about to become, as she 
thought, Squire of Bragton. Had he remained 
simply Mr. Morton of Hoppet Hall, it would still 
have been impossible. But this exaltation of 
her idol altogether out of her reach was an added 
injustice. She could remember, not the person, 
but all the recent memories of the old squire, 
the veneration with which he was named, the 
masterdom which was attributed to him, the 
unequaled nobility of his position in regard to 
Dillsborough. His successor would be to her as 
some one crowned, and removed by his crown 
altogether from her \vorld. Then she pictured to 
herself the stately dame who would certainly come, 
and she made fresh resolutions Avith a sore heart. 

"I don't know why you should be so very lit- 
tle with me," said Lady Ushant, almost whining. 
"When I was at Cheltenham, you wanted to 
come to me." 

"There are so many things to be done at 
home." 

"And yet you would have come to Chelten- 
ham." 

"We were in great trouble then. Lady Ushant. 
Of course I would like to be with you. You 
ought not to scold me, because you know how I 
love you." 

"Has the young man gone away altogether 
now, Mary ?" 

"Altogether." 

"And Mrs. Masters is satisfied?" 

" She knows it can never be, and therefore 
she is quiet about it." 



"I was sorry for that young man, because he 
was so true." 

"You couldn't be more sorry than I was, 
Lady Ushant. I love him as though he were a 
brother. But — " 

" Mary, dear Mary, I fear you are in trouble." 

"I think it is all trouble," said Mary, rushing 
forward and hiding her foce in her old friend's 
lap, as she knelt on the ground before her. Lady 
Ushant longed to ask a question, but she did not 
dare. And Mary Masters longed to have one 
friend to whom she could confide her secret, but 
neither did she dare. 

On the next day, very early in the morning, 
there came a note from Mrs. Morton to Mr. 
Masters, the attorney. Could Mr. Masters come 
out on that day to Bragton and see Mrs. Morton ? 
The note was very particular in saying that Mrs. 
Morton was to be the person seen. The mes- 
senger, who waited for an answer, brought back 
word that Mr. Masters would be there at noon. 
The circumstance was one which agitated him 
considerably, as he had not been inside the house 
at Bragton since the days immediately follow- 
ing the death of the old squire. As it happened, 
Lady Ushant was going to Bragton ,on the same 
day, and at the suggestion of Mr. Eunciman, 
whose horses in the hunting season barely suf- 
ficed for his trade, the old lady and the lawyer 
went together. Not a word was said between 
them as to the cause which took either of them 
on their journey, but they spoke much of the 
days in which they had known each other, when 
the old squire was alive, and Mr. Masters thanked 
Lady Ushant for her kindness to his daughter. 
"I love her almost as though she were my 
own," said Lady Ushant. "When I am dead, 
she will have half of what I have got." 

"She will have no right to expect that," said 
the gratified father. 

"She will have half, or the whole — just as 
Reginald may be situated then. I don't know 
why I shouldn't tell her father what it is I mean 
to do." The attorney knew to a shilling the 
amount of Lady Ushant's income, and thought 
that this was the best news he had heard for 
many a day. 

While Lady Ushant was in the sick man's 
room, Mrs. Morton was closeted with tlie at- 
torney. She had thought much of this step 
before she had dared to take it, and even now 
doubted whether it would avail her any thing. 
As she entered the book-i'oom in which Mr. 
Masters was seated, she almost repented. But 
the man was there, and she was compelled to go 
on with her scheme. "Mr. Masters," she said, 
"it is, I think, a long time since you have been 
employed by this family." 

"A very long time, madam." 

"And I have now sent for you under circum- 
stances of great difiiculty," she answered ; but 
as he said nothing, she was forced to go on. 
"My grandson made his will the other day up 
in London, when he thought that he was going 
out to Patagonia." Mr. Masters bowed. "It 
was done when he was in sovmd health, and he 
is now not satisfied with it." Then there was 
another bow, but not a word was spoken. •" Of 
course you know that he is very ill." 

" We have all been very much grieved to hear 
it." 

" I am sure you would be, for the sake of old 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



151 



daj-s. When Dr. Fanning was last • here, he 
thought that my grandson was something better. 
He held out stronger hopes than before. But 
still he is very ill. His mind has never wavered 
for a moment, Mr. Masters." Again Mr. Mas- 
ters bowed. "And now he thinks that some 
changes should be made ; indeed, that there 
should be a new will." 

" Does he wish me to see him, Mrs. Morton?" 

"Not to-day, I think. He is not quite pre- 
pared to-day. But I wanted to ask whether 
you could come at a moment's notice — quite at 
a moment's notice. I thought it better, so that 
you should know why we sent for you, if we did 
send, so that you might be prepared. It could 
be done here, I suppose ?" 

" It would be possible, Mrs. Morton." 

"And you could do it?" 

Then there was a long pause. "Altering a 
will is a very serious thing, Mrs. Morton. And 
when it is dona on what perhaps may be a death- 
bed, it is a very serious thing indeed. Mr. Mor- 
ton, I believe, employs a London solicitor. I 
know the firm, and more respectable gentlemen 
do not exist. A telegram would bring down 
one of the firm from London by the next train." 

A frown, a very heavy frown, came across the 
old woman's brow. She would have repressed 
it, had it been possible ; but she could not com- 
mand herself, and the frown was tliere. "If 
that had been practicable, Mr. Masters," she 
said, " we should not have sent for you." 

"I was only suggesting, madam, what might 
be the best course." 

"Exactly. And of course I am much obliged. 
But if we are driven to call upon you for your 
a,ssistanee, we shall find it?" 

"Madam," said the attorney, very slowly, "it 
is of course part of my business to make wills ; 
and when called upon to do so, I perform my 
business to the best of my ability. But in alter- 
ing a will during illness great care is necessary. 
A codicil might be added — " 

"A new will would be necessary." 

A new will, thought the attorney, could only 
be necessary for altering the disposition of the 
whole estate. He knew enough of the family 
circumstances to be aware that the property 
should go to Reginald Morton whether with or 
without a will, and also enough to be aware 
that this old lady was Reginald's bitter enemy. 
He did not think that he could bring himself to 
take instructions from a dying man — from the 
Squire of Bragton on his death-bed — for an in- 
strument which should alienate the pi'operty from 
the proper heir. He too had his strong feelings, 
perhaps his prejudices, about Bragton. ' ' I would 
wish that the task were in other hands, Mrs. 
Morton." 

"Why so?" 

"It is hard to measure the capacity of an 
invalid." 

" His mind is as clear as yours." 

"It might be so, and yet I might not be able 
to satisfy myself that it was so. I should have 
to ask long and tedious questions, which would 
be offensive. And I should find myself giving 
advice which would not be called for. For in- 
stance, were your grandson to wish to leave this 
estate away from the heir — " 

"I am not discussing his wishes, Mr. Mas- 
ters. " 



"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Morton, for making 
the suggestion ; but, as I said before, I should 
prefer that he should employ — some one else. " 

' ' You refuse, then ?" 

" If Mr. Morton were to send for me, I should 
go to him instantly. But I fear I might be slow 
in taking his instructions ; and it is possible that 
I might refuse to act on them." Then she got 
up from her chair and, bowing to him with state- 
ly displeasure, left the room. 

All this she had done without any authority 
from her grandson, simply encouraged in her 
object by his saying, in his weakness, that he 
would think of her proposition. So intent was 
she on her business that she was resolved to 
have every thing ready if only he could once be 
brought to say that Peter Morton should be his 
heir. Having abandoned all hopes for her no- 
ble cousin, she could tell her conscience that she 
was instigated simply by an idea of justice. 
Peter Morton was at any rate the legitimate son 
of a well-born father and a well-born mother. 
What had she, or any one belonging to her, to 
gain by it? But forty years since a brat had 
been born at Bragton in opposition to her wishes, 
by whose means she had been expelled from the 
place ; and now it seemed to her to be simple 
justice that he should on this account be robbed 
of that which would otherwise be naturally his 
own. As Mr. Masters would not serve her turn, 
she must write to the London lawyers. The 
thing would be more difficult ; but, nevertheless, 
if the sick man could once be got to say that 
Peter should be his heir, she thought that she 
could keep him to his word. Lady Ushaut 
and Mr. Masters went back to Dillsborough in 
Runciman's fly, and it need hardly be said that 
the attorney said nothing of the business which 
had taken him to Bragton. 

This happened on a Wednesday — Wednesday, 
the 3d of March. On Friday morning at four 
o'clock, during the darkness of the night, John 
Morton was lying dead on his bed, and the old 
woman was at his bedside. She had done her 
duty by him as far as she knew how in tending 
him — had been assiduous with the diligence of 
much younger years ; but now, as she sat there, 
having had the fact absolutely announced to her 
by Dr. Nuppei-, her greatest agony arose from 
the feeling that the roof which covered her, prob- 
ably the chair in which she sat, were the pro])er- 
ty of Reginald Morton. "Bastard !" she said to 
herself between her teeth ; but she so said it that 
neither Dr. Nupper, who was in the room, nor 
the woman who was with her, should hear it. 

Dr. Nupper took the news into Dillsborough, 
and as the folk sat down to breakfast they all 
heard that the Squire of Bragton was dead. 
The man had been too little known, had been too 
short a time in the neighborhood to give occa- 
sion for tears. There was certainly more of in- 
terest than of grief in the matter. Mr. Masters 
said to himself that the time had been too short 
for any change in the will, and therefore felt tol- 
erably certain that Reginald would be the heir. 
But for some days this opinion was not" general 
in Dillsborough, Mr. Mainwaring had heard 
that Reginald had been sent away from Bragton 
with a flea in his ear, and was pretty certain 
that, when the will was read, it would be found 
that the property was to go to Mrs. Morton's 
friends. Dr. Nupper was of the same o])inion. 



152 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



There were many in Dillsborough with whom 
Reginald was not popuhir, and who thought that 
some man of a different isind would do better as 
Squire of Bragton. "He don't know a fox 
when he sees 'un,"said Tony Tuppett to Larry 
Twentyman, whom he had come across the coun- 
ty to call upon and to console. 



CHAPTER LXIV. 

THE WILL. 

On that Saturday the club met at Dillsbor- 
ough, even though the Squire of Bragton had 
died on Friday morning. Through the whole 
of that Saturday the town had been much exer- 
cised in its belief and expression as to the dis- 
position of the property. The town knew very 
well that Mr. Masters, the attorney, had been 
sent for to Bragton on the previous Wednesday, 
whence the deduction as to a new will, made of 
course under the auspices of Mrs. Morton, would 
have been quite plain to the town, had not a 
portion of the town heard that the attorney had 
not been for a moment with the dying man dur- 
ing his visit. This latter piece of information 
had come through Lady Ushant, who had been 
in her nephew's bedroom the whole time: but 
Lady Ushant had not much personal communi- 
cation with the town generally, and would prob- 
ably have said nothing on this subject had not 
Mr. Runciman walked up to Hoppet Hall behind 
the fly, after Mr. Masters had left it, and, while 
helping her ladyship out, made inquiry as to the 
condition of things at Bragton generally. 

" I was sorry to hear of their sending for any 
lawyer," said Mr. Runciman. 

Then Lady Ushant protested that the lawyer 
had not been sent for by her nephew, and that 
her nephew had not even seen him. 

"Oh, indeed," said Mr. Runciman, who im- 
mediately took a walk round his own paddock 
with the object of putting two and two together. 
Mr. Runciman was a discreet man, and did not 
allow this piece of information to spread itself 
generally. He told Dr. Nupper, and Mr. Hamp- 
ton, and Lord Rufford, for the hounds went out 
on Friday, though the Squire of Bragton was ly- 
ing dead ; but he did not tell Mr. Mainwaring, 
whom he encountered in the street of the town 
as he was coming home early, and who was very 
keen to learn whatever news there was. 

Reginald Morton on Friday did not go near 
Bragton. That, of course, was palpable to all, 
and was a great sign that he himself did not re- 
gard himself as the heir. He had for a while 
been very intimate at the house, visiting it daily, 
and during a part of that time the grandmother 
had been altogether absent. Then she had come 
back, and he had discontinued his visits. And 
now he did not even go over to seal up the draw- 
ers and to make arrangements as to the funeral. 
He did not, at any rate, go on the Friday, nor 
on the Saturday. And on the Saturday Mr. 
Wobytrade, the undertaker, had received orders 
from Mrs. Morton to go at once to Bragton. 
All this was felt to be strong against Reginald. 
But when it was discovered that on the Saturday 
afternoon Mrs. Morton herself had gone up to 
London, not waiting even for the coming of any 
one else to take possession of the house, and 



that she had again carried all her own personal 
luggage with her, then opinion in Dillsborough 
again veered. Upon the whole, the betting was 
a point or two in favor of Reginald when the 
club met. 

Mrs. Masters, who had been much quelled of 
late, had been urgent with her husband to go 
over to The Bush ; but he was unwilling, lie said, 
to be making jolly while the Squire of Bragton 
was lying unburied. " He was nothing to you, 
Gregory," said his wife, who had in vain en- 
deavored to learn from him why he had been 
summoned to Bragton. "You will hear some- 
thing over there, and it will relieve your spirits." 

So instigated, he did go across, and found all 
the accustomed members of the club congre- 
gated in the room. Even Larry Twentyman 
was present, who of late had kept himself aloof 
from all such meetings. Both the Botseys were 
there, and Nupper and Harry Stubbings, and 
Ribbs the butcher. Runciman himself of course 
was in the room, and he had introduced on this 
occasion Captain Glomax, the master of the 
hunt, who was staying at his house that night — • 
perhaps with a view to hunting duties on the 
Monday, perhaps in order that he might hear 
something as to the Bragton property. It had 
already been suggested to him that he might 
possibly hire the house for a year or two at little 
more than a nominal rent, that the old kennels 
might be resuscitated, and that such arrange- 
ments would be in all respects convenient. He 
was the master of the hunt, and of course there 
was no difficulty as to introducing him to the 
club. 

Captain Glomax was speaking in a somewhat 
dictatorial voice, as becomes a master of hounds 
when in the field, though perhaps it should be 
dropped afterward, when the attorney entered. 
There was a sudden rise of voices striving to in- 
terrupt the captain, as it was felt by them all 
that Mr. Masters must be in possession of infor- 
mation; but the captain himself went on: "Of 
course it is the place for the hounds. Nobody can 
doubt that who knows the country and under- 
stands the working of it. The hunt ought to 
have subscribed, and hired the kennels and sta- 
bles permanently." 

"There would have wanted two to that bar- 
gain, captain," said Mr. Runciman. 

"Of course there would, but what would you 
think of a man who would refuse such a propo- 
sition when he didn't want the place himself? 
Do you think if I'd been there foxes would have 
been poisoned in Dillsborough "Wood ? I'd have 
had that fellow Goarly under my thumb." 

" Then you'd have had an awful blackguard 
under your thumb. Captain Glomax," said Lar- 
ry, who could not restrain his wrath when Goar- 
ly's name was mentioned. 

"What does that matter if j'ou get foxes?" 
continued the master. " But the fact is, gen- 
tlemen in a county like this always want to have 
every thing done for them, and never to do any 
thing for themselves. I'm sick of it, I know. 
Nobody is fonder of hunting a co«ntry than I 
am, and I think I know what I'm about." 

"That yon do," said Fred Botsey, who, like 
most men, was always ready to flatter the mas- 
ter. 

"And I don't care how hard I work. From 
the first of August till the end of May I never 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



153 



have a day to mj'self. What with cubbing and 
then the season, and entering the young hounds, 
and buying and selling horses, by George ! I'm 
at it the whole yeai'." 

"A master of hounds looks for that, captain," 
said the innkeeper. 

"Looks for it! Yes, he must look for it. 
But I wouldn't mind that, if I could get gentle- 
men to pull a little with me. I can't stand be- 
ing out of pocket as I have been, and so I must 
let them know. If the country would get the 
kennels and the stables, and lay out a few pounds 
so. that horses and hounds and men could go 
intQ them, I wouldn't mind having a shot for the 
house. It's killing work where I am now, the 
other side of RufFord, you may say." Then he 
stopped ; but no one would undertake to answer 
him. The meaning of it was, that Captain Glo- 
max wanted five hundred pounds a year more 
than he received, and every one there knew that 
there was not five hundred pounds a year more 
to be got out of the country, unless Lord Rufibrd 
would put his hand into his pocket. Now the 
present stables and the present kennels had been 
"made comfortable" by Lord Rufibrd, and it 
was not thought probable that he would pay for 
the move to Bragton. 

"When's the funeral to be, Mr. Masters?" 
asked Runciman, who knew very well the day 
fixed, but who thought it well to get back to the 
subject of real interest in the town. 

"Next Thursday, I'm told." 

"There's no hurry, with weather like this," 
said Nupper, professionally. 

" They can't open the will till the late squire 
is buried," continued the innkeeper, "and there 
will be one or two very anxious to know what is 
in it." 

" I "suppose it will all go to the man who lives 
up here at Hoppet Hall," said the captain — "a 
man that was never outside a horse in his life!" 

" He's not a bad fellow," said Runciman. 

"He is a very good fellow," said the attorney, 
"and I trust he may have the property. If it 
be left away from him, I for one shall think that 
a great injustice has been done." This was list- 
ened to with attention, as every one there 
thought that Mr. Masters must know. 

"I can't understand," said Glomax, "how 
any man can be considered a good fellow as a 
country gentleman who does-not care for sport. 
Just look at it all I'ound. Suppose others were 
like him, what would become of us all?" 

"Yes, indeed, what would become of us?" 
asked the two Botseys in a breath. 

" 'Ho'd 'ire our 'orses, Runciman ?" suggested 
Harry Stubbings, with a laugh. 

"Think what England would be!" said the 
captain. "When I hear of a country gentle- 
man sticking to books and all that, I feel that 
the glory is departing from the land. Where 
are the sinews of war to come from? That's 
what I want to know." 

"Who will it be, Mr. Masters, if the gent 
don't get it?" asked Ribbs, from his corner on 
the sofa. 

This was felt to be a pushing question. 
"How am I to know, Mr. Ribbs?" said the at- 
torney. "I didn't make the late squire's will; 
and if I did, you don't suppose I should tell 
you." 

"I'm told that the next is Peter Morton," 



said Fred Botsey. " He's something in a public 
office up in London." 

"It won't go to him," said Ered's brother. 
"That old lady has relations of her own who 
have had their mouths open for the last forty 
years. " 

"Away from the Mortons altogether!" said 
Harry. "That would be an awful shame." 

"I don't see what good the Mortons have 
done this last half-century," said the captain. 

"You don't remember the old squire, cap- 
tain," said the innkeeper, "and I don't re- 
member him well. Indeed, I was only a little 
chap when they buried him. But there's that 
feeling left behind him to this day, that not a 
poor man in the county wouldn't be sorry to 
think that there wasn't a Morton left among 
'em. Of course a hunting gentleman is a gbod 
thing." 

"About the best thing out, "said the captain. 

"But a hunting gentleman isn't every thing. 
I know nothing of the old lady's people — only 
this, that none of their money ever came' into 
Dillsborough. I'm all for Reginald Morton. 
He's my landlord as it is, and he's a gentleman." 

"I hate foreigners coming," said Ribbs. 

" 'E ain't too old to take to it yet," said Har- 
ry. Fred Botsey declared that he didn't believe 
in men hunting unless they began young. 
Whereupon Dr. Nupper declared that he had 
never ridden over a fence till he was forty-five, 
and that he was ready now to ride Ered across 
country for a new hat. Larry suggested that a 
man might be a good friend to sport, though he 
didn't ride much himself; and Runciman again 
asserted that hunting wasn't every thing. Upon 
the whole, Reginald was the fiivorite. But the 
occasion was so special that a little supper was 
ordered, and I fear the attorney did not get home 
till after twelve. 

Till the news reached Hoppet Hall that Mrs. 
Morton had taken herself off to London, there 
was great doubt there as to what ought to be 
done, and even then the difiiculty was not alto- 
gether over. Till she was gone, neither Lady 
Ushant nor her nephew would go there, and he 
could only declare his purpose of attending the 
funeral, whether he were asked or not. When 
his aunt again spoke of the will, he desired her, 
with much emphasis, not to allude to the subject, 
" If the property is to come to me," he said, 
' ' any thing of good that may be in it can not be 
much sweeter by anticipation. And if it is not, 
I shall only encourage disappointment by think- 
ing of it." 

"But it would be such a shame!" 

' ' That I deny altogether. It was his own to 
do as he liked with it. Had he married, I should 
not have expected it because I am the heir. 
But, if you please, aunt, do not say a Avord more 
about it." 

On the Sunday morning he heard that Mrs. 
Morton was gone to London, and then he walk- 
ed over to Bragton. He found that she had 
locked and sealed up every thing with so much 
precision that she must have worked hArd at the 
task from the hour of his death almost to that 
of her departure. "She never rested herself all 
day," said Mrs. Hopkins, "till I thought she 
would sink from very weariness." She had 
gone into every room and opened every drawer, 
and had had every piece of plate through her 



15-t 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



fingeis, and tlien Mrs. Hopkins told him that 
just as she was departing she had said that the 
keys would be given to the lawyer. After that 
he wandered about the place, thinking what his 
life would be should he find himself the owner 
of Bragton. At this moment he almost felt that 
he disliked the place, though there had been 
times in which he had thought that he loved it 
too well. Of one thing he was conscious — that 
if Bragton should become his, it would be his 
duty to live there. He must move his books, 
and pipes, and other household gods from Hop- 
pet Hall, and become an English squire. AVould 
it be too late for him to learn to ride to hounds ? 
Would it be possible that he should ever succeed 
in shooting a pheasant, if he were to study the 
art patiently ? Could he interest himself as to 
the prevalence or decadence of ground game ? 
And what must he do with his neighbors ? Of 
course he would have to entertain Mr. Main- 
waring and the other parsons, and perhaps once 
in the year to ask Lord Rutford to dine with 
him. If Lord Rufford came, what on earth 
would he say to him ? 

And then there arose another question. 
Would it not be his duty to marry — and, if so, 
whom? He had been distinctly told that Mary 
Masters had given her heart to some one, and 
he certainly was not the man to ask for the hand 
of a girl who had not a heart to give. And yet 
he thought that it would be impossible that he 
should marry any other person. He spent hours 
in walking about the grounds, looking at the 
garden and belongings which would so probably 
be his own within a week, and thinking whether 
it would be possible that he should bring a mis- 
tress to preside over them. Before he reached 
home he had made up his mind that only one 
misti-ess would be possible, and that she was be- 
yond his reach. . 

On the Tuesday he received a scrawl from 
Mrs. Hopkins, with a letter from the lawyer ad- 
dressed to her. The lawyer wrote to say that he 
would be down on Wednesday evening, would 
attend the funeral, and read his client's will aft- 
er they had performed the ceremony. He went 
on to add that, in obedience to Mrs. Morton's 
directions, he had invited Mr. Peter Morton to 
be present on the occasion. On the Wednesday 
Reginald again went over, but left before the ar- 
rival of the two gentlemen. On the Thursday 
he was there early, and of course took upon him- 
self the duty of chief mourner. Peter Morton 
was there, and showed, in a bewildered way, that 
he had been summoned rather to the opening 
of the will than to the funeral of a man he had 
never seen. 

Then the will was read. There were only two 
names mentioned in it. John Morton left five 
thousand pounds, and his watch and chain and 
rings, to Arabella Trefoil, and every thing else 
of which he was possessed to his cousin, Regi- 
nald Morton. 

" Upon my word, I don't know why they sent 
for me, "said the other cousin, Peter. 

" Mrs.' Morton seemed to think that j'ou 
would like to pay a tribute of respect," said the 
lawyer. Peter looked at him, and went up-stairs 
and packed his portmanteau. The lawyer handed 
over the keys to the new squire, and then every 
thing was done. 



CHAPTER LXV. 

THE NEW MINISTER, 

"Poor old Paragon !" exclaimed Archibald 
Currie, as he stood with his back to tlie fire 
among his colleagues at the Foreign Office on 
the day after John Morton's death. 

"Poor young Paragon ! That's the pity of it," 
said Mounser Green, "I don't suppose he was 
turned thirty, and he was a useful man — a very 
useful man. That's the worst of it. He was 
just one of those men that the country can't af- 
ford to lose, and whom it is so very hard to re- 
place." Mounser Green was always eloquent 
as to the needs of the pubhc service, and did 
really in his heart of hearts care about his olfice. 
" Who is to go to Patagonia? I'm sure I don't 
know. Platitude was asking me about it, and I 
told him that I couldn't name a man." 

"Old Platitude always thinks that the world 
is coming to an end," said Currie, "There are 
as good fish in the sea as ever were caught." 

"Who is there? Monsoon Avon't go, even if 
they ask him. The Paragon was just the fellow 
for it. He had his heart in the work. An im- 
mense deal depends on what sort of man we 
have in Patagonia at the present moment. If 
Paraguay gets the better of the Patagonese, all 
Brazil will be in a ferment, and you know how 
that kind of thing spreads among half-caste 
Spaniards and Portuguese. Nobody can inter- 
fere but the British minister. When I suggest- 
ed Morton, I knew I had the right man if he'd 
only take it." 

"And now he has gone and died!" said Hoff- 
man. 

"And now he has gone and died," continued 
Mounser Green. " 'I never nursed a dear ga- 
zelle,' and all the rest of it. Poor Paragon ! I 
fear he was a little cut about Miss Trefoil." 

"She was down with him the day before he 
died," said young Glossop. " I happen to know 
that." 

"It was before he thought of going to Pata- 
gonia that she was at Bragton," said Currie. 

"That's all you know about it, old fellow," 
said the indignant young one. "She was there 
a second time, just before his death. I had it 
from Lady Penwether, who was in the neighbor- 
hood." 

"My dear little boy," said Mounser Green, 
" that was exactly what was likely to happen, 
and he yet may have broken his heart. I have 
seen a good deal of the lady lately, and under 
no circumstances would she have married him. 
When he accepted the mission, that, at any rate, 
was all over." 

' ' The Rufford affair had begun before that, " 
said Hoffmann. 

"The Rufford affair, as you call it," said Glos- 
sop, " was no affair at all." 

"What do you mean by that?" asked Cur- 
rie. 

"I mean that Rufford was never engaged to 
her — not for an instant," said the lad, urgent in 
spreading the lesson which he had received from 
his cousin. "It was all a dead take-in." 

" Who was taken in ?" asked Mounser Green. 

"Well, nobody was taken in, as it happened. 
But I suppose there can't be a doubt that she 
tried her best to catch him, and that the duke 
and duchess and Mistletoe, and old Trefoil, all 



THE AMEEICAN SENATOR. 



backed her up. It was a regular plant. The 
ouiy thing is, it didn't come off." 

"Look here, young shaver "—this was Moun- 
ser Green again — ' ' when you speak of a young 
lady, do you be a little more discreet." 

"But didn't she do it, Green ?" 

"That's more than you or I can tell. If you 
want to know what I think, I believe he paid her 
a great deal of attention, and then behaved very 
badly to her." 

"He didn't behave badly at all," said young 
Glossop. 

" My dear boy, when you are as old as I am, 
you will have learned how very hard it is to 
know every thing. I only say what I believe, 
and perhaps T may have better ground for be- 
lieving than you. He certainly paid her a great 
deal of attention, and then her friends, especially 
the duchess, went to work." 

"They've wanted to get her off their hands 
these six or eight years," said Currie. 

"That's nonsense again," continued the new 
advocate ; " for there is no doubt she might have 
married Morton all the time, had she pleased." 

"Yes; but Rufford! — a fellow with sixty 
thousand a year !" said Glossop. 

"About a third of that would be nearer the 
mark. Glossy. Take my word for it, you don't 
know every thing yet, though you have so many 
advantages." After that Mounser Green re- 
treated to his OAvn room with a look and tone as 
though he were angry. 

"What makes him so ferocious about it?" 
asked Glossop, when the door was shut. 

"You are always putting your foot in it," said 
Currie. " I kept on winking to you, but it was 
no good. He sees her almost every day now. 
She's staying with old Mrs. Green in Portugal 
Street. There has been some break-up between 
her and her mother, and old Mrs. Green has 
taken her in. There's some sort of relationship. 
Mounser is the old woman's nephew, and she is 
aunt by marriage to the Connop Greens down 
in Hampshire, and Mrs. Connop Green is first 
cousin to Lady Augustus." 

"If Dick's sister married Tom's brother, what 
relation would Dick be to Tom's mother? 
That's the kind of thing, isn't it?" suggested 
Hoffmann. 

' ' At any rate, there she is, and Mounser sees 
her every day." 

" It don't make any difference about Ruf- 
ford," said young Glossop, stoutly. 

All this happened before the will had been 
declared, when Arabella did not dream that she 
was an heiress. A day or two afterward she re- 
ceived a letter from the lawyer telling her of her 
good fortune, and informing her that the trinkets 
would be given up to her and the money paid — 
short of legacy duty — whenever she would fix a 
time and place. The news almost stunned her. 
There was a moment in which she thought that 
she was bound to reject this money, as she had 
rejected that tendered to her by the other man. 
Poor as she was, greedy as she was, alive as 
she was to the necessity of doing something for 
herself, still this legacy was to her at first bitter 
rather* than sweet. She had never treated any 
man so ill as she had treated this man, and it 
was thus that he punished her ! She was alive 
to the feeling that he had always been true to 
her. In her intercourse with other men, there 



had been generally a battle carried on with some 
fairness. Diamond had striven to cut diamond. 
But here the dishonesty had all been on one 
side, and she was aware that it had been so. In 
her later affair with Lord Rufford, she really did 
think that she had been ill used; but she was 
quite alive to the fiict that her treatment of John 
Morton had been abominable. The one man, 
in order that he might escape witliout fiirtlier 
trouble, had in the grossest manner sent to her 
the ofter of a bribe. The other — in regard to 
whose end her hai-d heart was touched, even her 
conscience seared — had named her in his will as 
though his affection was unimpaired. Of course 
she took the money, but she took it with inward 
groans. She took the money and the trinkets, 
and the matter was all arranged for her by 
Mounser Green, 

"So, after all, the Paragon left her whatever 
he could leave," said Currie in the same room 
at the Foreign Office, A week had passed since 
the last conversation, and at this moment Moun- 
ser Green was not in the room, 

"Oh dear, no," said young Glossy, "She 
doesn't have ISragton, That goes to his cousin," 

"That was entailed. Glossy, my boy," 

"Not a bit of it. Every body thought he 
would leave the place to another Morton — a fel- 
low he'd never seen, in one of those Somerset 
House offices. He and this fellow who is to 
have it were' enemies; but he wouldn't put it 
out of the right line. It's all very well for 
Mounser to be down on me, but I do happen to 
know what goes on in that country. She gets a 
pot of money, and no end of family jewels ; but 
he didn't leave her the estate, as he might have 
done," 

At that moment Mounser Green came into the 
room. It was rather later than usual, being 
past one o'clock, and he looked as though he 
were flurried. He didn't speak for a few min- 
utes, but stood before the fire smoking a cigar. 
And there was a general silence, there being now 
a feeling among them that Arabella Trefoil was 
not to be talked about in the old way before 
Mounser Green, At last he spoke himself. "I 
suppose you haven't heard who is to go to Pata- 
gonia, after all ?" 

"Is it settled ?" asked Currie, 

"Any body we know?" asked Hoffmann, 

" I hope it's no d — outsider," said the too en- 
ergetic Glossop, 

" It is settled ; and it is somebody you know ; 
and it is not a d — outsider; unless, indeed, he 
may be considered to be an outsider in reference 
to that branch of the service, " 

"It's some consul," said Currie, "Back- 
stairs from Panama, I'll bet a crown," 

"It isn't Backstairs, and it isn't a consul. 
Gentlemen, get out your pocket-handkerchiefs. 
Mounser Green has consented to be expatriated 
for the good of his country." 

"You going to Patagonia!" said Currie. 
"You're chaffing," said Glossop. "I never 
was so shot in my life," said Hoffmann. 

"It's true, my dear boys." 

' ' I never was so sorry for any thing in all my 
born days," said Glossop, almost crying. "Why 
on earth should you go to Patagonia?" 

"Patagonia!" ejaculated Currie. "What 
will yon do in Patagonia?" 

" It's an opening, my dear fellow," said Moun- 



loG 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



ser Green, leaning affectionately on Glossop's 
shoulder. "What should I do by remaining 
here? When Drummond aslied me, I saw he 
wanted pie to go. They don't forget that kind 
of thing." 

At that moment a messenger opened the door, 
and the Senator Gotobed, almost without being 
announced, entered the room. He had become 
so intimate of late at the Foreign OflSce, and his 
visits were so frequent, that he was almost able 
to dispense with the assistance of any messenger. 
Perhaps Mounser Green and his colleagues were 
a little tired of him ; but yet, after their fashion, 
they were always civil to liim, and remembered, 
as they were bound to do, that he was one of the 
leading politicians of a great nation. "I have 
secured the hall," he said at once, as though 
aware that no news could be so important as the 
news he thus conveyed. 

"Have you, indeed?" said Currie. 

' ' Secured it for the fifteenth. Now the ques- 
tion is — " 

"What do you think?" said Glossop, inter- 
rupting him without the slightest hesitation. 
" Mounser Green is going to Patagonia, in place 
of the poor Paragon." 

" I beg to congratulate Mr. Green with all my 
heart." 

"By George, I don't," said the juvenile clerk. 
"Fancy congratulating a fellow, on going to 
Patagonia! It's what I call an awful sell for 
every body." 

"But, as I was saying, I have the hall for the 
fifteenth." 

"You mean to lecture then, after all," said 
Green. 

"Certainly I do ; I am not going to be deter- 
red from doing my duty because I am told there 
is a little danger. What I want to know is 
whether I can depend on having a staff of police- 
men." 

" Of course there will be police, "said Green. 

"But I mean some extra strength. I don't 
mind for myself, but I should be so unhappy if 
there were any thing of a commotion." Then 
he was assured that the officers of the police 
force would look to that, and was assured also 
that Mounser Green and the other gentlemen in 
the room would certainly attend the lecture. 
"I don't suppose I shall be gone by that time," 
said Mounser Green, in a melancholy tone of 
voice. 



CHAPTER LXVI. 

"l MUST GO." 

" Eiifford, March 5th. 

"Mt dear Miss Trefoil, — I am indeed 
sorry that I should have offended you by ac- 
ceding to a suggestion which, I think I may say, 
originated with your motlier. When she told 
me that her circumstances and yours were not, 
in a pecuniary point of view, so comfortable as 
they might be, I did feel that it was in my pow- 
er to alleviate that trouble. The sum of money 
mentioned by my lawyer was certainly named 
by your mother. At any rate, pray believe that 
I meant to be of seiwice. 

"As to naming a place where we might meet, 
it really could be of no service. It would be 
painful to both of us, and could have no good 



result. Again apologizing for having inadvert- 
ently offended you by adopting the views which 
Lady Augustus entertained, I beg to assure you 
that I am, yours faithfully, Rdfitokd." 

This letter came from the peer himself, with- 
out assistance. After his interview with Lady 
Augustus, he simply told his Mentor, Sir George, 
that he had steadfastly denied the existence of 
any engagement, not daring to acquaint him 
with the offer he had made. Neither, therefore, 
could he tell Sir George of the manner in which 
the young lady had repudiated the offer. That 
she should have repudiated it was no doubt to 
her credit. As he thought of it^ afterward, he 
felt that, had she accepted it, she would have 
been base indeed. And yet, as he thought of 
what had taken place at the house in Piccadil- 
ly, he was confident that the proposition had in 
some way come from her mother. No doubt he 
had first written a sum of money on the frag- 
ment of paper which she had preserved, and the 
evidence would so far go against him. But 
Lady Augustus had spoken piteously of their 
joint poverty, and had done so in lieu of insist- 
ing, with a mother's indignation, on her daugli- 
ter's rights. Of course she had intended to ask 
for money. What other purpose could she have 
had? It was so he had argued at the moment, 
and so he had argued since. If it were so, he 
would not admit that he had behaved unlike a 
gentleman in offering the money. But yet he 
did not dare to tell Sir George, and therefore 
was obliged to answer Arabella's letter without 
assistance. 

He was not altogether sorry to have his eight 
thousand pounds, being fully as much alive to 
the value of money as any brother peer in the 
kingdom, but he would sooner have paid the 
money than be subject to an additional inter- 
view. He had been forced up to London to see 
first the father and then the mother, and thought 
that he had paid penalty enough for any offense 
that he might have committed. An additional 
inteiwiew with the young lady herself would dis- 
tress him beyond any thing — would be worse 
than any other interview. He would sooner 
leave Rufford and go abroad, than encounter it. 
He promised himself that nothing should induce 
him to encounter it. Thei'efore he wrote the 
above letter. 

Arabella, when she received it, had ceased to 
care very much about the insult of the offer. 
She had then quarreled with her mother, and 
had insisted on some separation, even without 
any arrangement as to funds. Requiring some 
confidante, she had told a great deal, though not 
quite all, to Mrs. Connop Green, and that lady 
had passed her on for a while to her husband's 
aunt in London. At this time she had heard 
nothing of John Morton's will, and had perhaps 
thought with some tender regret of the munifi- 
cence of her other lover, which she had scorned. 
But she was still intent on doing something. 
The fury of her despair was still on her, so that 
she could not weigh the injury she might do 
herself against some possible gratification to her 
wounded spirit. Up to this moment she had 
formed no future hope. At this epoch she had 
no string to her bow. John Morton was dead ; 
and she had absolutely wept for him in solitude, 
though she had certainly never loved him. Nor 



THE AMEEICAN SENATOE. 



157 



did she love Lord EufFord. As far as she knew 
how to define her feelings, she thought that she 
hated him. But she told herself hourly that she 
had not done with him. She was instigated by 
the true feminine Medea feeling that she would 
find some way to wring his heart, even though, 
in the process, she might suffer twice as much 
as he did. She had convinced herself that in 
this instance he was the offender. "Painful to 
both of us !" No doubt ! But because it would 
be painful to him, it should be exacted. Though 
he was a coward, and would fain shirk such 
pain, she could be brave enough. Even though 
she should be driven to catch him by the arm in 
the open street, she would have it out with him. 
He was a liar and a coward, and she would, at 
any rate, have the satisfaction of telling him so. 

She thought much about it before she could 
•resolve on what she would do. She could not 
ask old Mrs. Green to help her. Mrs. Green 
was a kind old woman, who had lived much in 
the world, and would wish to see much of it still, 
had age allowed her. Arabella Trefoil was at 
any I'ate the niece of a duke, and the duke, in 
this affair with Lord Eufford, had taken his 
niece's part. She opened her house, and as 
much of her heart as was left, to Arabella, and 
was ready to mourn with her over the wicked 
lord. She could sympathize with her too, as to 
the iniquities of her mother, whom none of the 
Greens loved. But she would have been fright- 
ened by any proposition as to Medean vengeance. 

In these days — still winter days, and not open 
to much feminine gayety in London, even if, in 
the present constitution of her circumstances, 
gayety would have come in her way — in these 
days the hours in her life which interested her 
most were those in which Mr. Mounser Green 
was dutifully respectful to his aunt. Patagonia 
had not yet presented itself to him. Some four 
or five hundred a year, which the old lady had 
at her own disposal, had for years past contrib- 
uted to Mounser's ideas of duty. And now Ara- 
bella's presence at the small house in Portugal 
Street certainly added a new zest to those ideas. 
The niece of the Duke of Mayfair, and the re- 
jected of Lord Eufford, was at the present mo- 
ment an interesting young woman in Mounser 
Green's world. There were many who thought 
that she had been ill-used. Had she succeeded, 
all the world would have pitied Lord Eufford ; 
but as he had escaped, there Avas a strong party 
for the lady. And gradually Mounser Green, 
who some weeks ago had not thought very much 
of her, became one of the party. She had 
brought her maid with her ; and when she found 
that Mounser Green came to the house every 
evening, either before or after dinner, she had 
recourse to her accustomed lures. She would 
sit quiet, dejected, almost broken-hearted, in the 
corner of a sofa; but when he spoke to her she 
would come to life, and raise her eyes, not ignor- 
ing the recognized dejection of her jilted position, 
not pretending to this minor stag of six tines 
that she was a sprightly, unwooed young fawn, 
fresh out of the forest, almost asking him to weep 
with her, and playing her accustomed lures, 
though in a part which she had not hitherto 
filled. 

But still she was resolved that her Jason 
should not as yet be quit of his Medea. So she 
made her plot. She would herself go down to 



Eufford and force her way into her late lover's 
presence, in spite of all obstacles. It was pos- 
sible that she should do this and get back to 
London the same day ; but, to do so, she must 
leave London by an early train at 7 a.m., stay 
seven or eight hours at Eufford, and reach the 
London station at 10 p.m. Eor such a journey 
there must be some valid excuse made to Mrs. 
Green. There must be some necessity shown 
for such a journey. She would declare that a 
meeting was necessary with her mother, and 
that her mother was at any town she chose to 
name at the requisite distance from London. In 
this way she might start with her maid before 
daylight, and get back after dark, and have the 
meeting with her mothei* — or with Lord Eufford, 
as the case might be. But Mounser Green 
knew very well that Lady Augustus was in Oi- 
chard Street, and knew also that Arabella was 
determined not to see her mother. And if she 
declared her purpose, without a caution to Moun- 
ser Green, the old woman would tell her nephew, 
and the nephew would unwittingly expose the 
deceit. It was necessary, therefore, that she 
should admit Mounser Green to, at any rate, half 
a confidence. This she did. "Don't ask me 
any questions," she said. "I know I can trusf 
you. I must be out of town the whole day, and 
perhaps the next. And your aunt must not 
know why I am going or where. You will help 
me ?" Of course he said that he would help 
her ; and" the lie, with a vast accompaniment of 
little lies, was told. There must be a meeting 
on business matters between her and her mother, 
and her mother was now in the neighborhood 
of Birmingham. This was the lie told to Mrs. 
Green. She would go down, and, if possible, 
be back on the same day. She would take her 
maid with her. She thought that in such a 
matter as that she could trust her maid, and was, 
in truth, afraid to travel alone. " I will come 
in the morning and take Miss Trefoil to the sta- 
tion," said Mounser, "and will meet her in the 
evening." And so the matter was arranged. 

The journey Avas not without its drawbacks, 
and almost its perils. Summer or winter, Ara- 
bella Trefoil was seldom out of bed before nine. 
It was incumbent on her now to get up on a cold 
March morning, when the lion had not as yet 
made way for the lamb, at half-past five. That 
itself seemed to be all but impossible to her. Nev- 
ertheless, she was ready, and had tried to swal- 
low half a cup of tea, wlien Mounser Green came 
to the door with a cab a little after six. She 
had endeavored to dispense with this new friend's 
attendance, but he had insisted, assuring her that 
without some such aid no cab would be forthcom- 
ing. She had not told him, and did not intend 
that he should know to what station she was go- 
ing. " You begged me to ask no questions," he 
said, when he was in the cab with her, the maid 
having been induced most unwillingly to seat 
herself with the cabman on the box, "and I have 
obeyed you. But I wish I knew how I could 
help you." 

' ' You have helped me, and you are helping 
me. But do not ask any thing-more." 

"Will you be angiy with me if I say that I 
fear you are intending something rash?" 

" Of course I am. How could it be otherwise 
with me ? Don't you think there are turns in a 
person's life when she must do something rash ? 



158 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR 



Think of 3'ourseif. If eveiy body crushed you ; 
if you were ill-treated beyond all belief; if the 
very people who ought to trust you doubted you, 
wouldn't you turn upon somebody and rend him ?" 

"Are you going to rend any body ?" 

"I do not know as yet." 

" I wish you would let me go down with you." 

" No ; that you certainly can not. You must 
not come even into the station with me. You 
have been very good to me. You will not now 
turn against me." 

' ' I certainly will do nothing but what you tell 
me." 

"Then here we are, and now you must go. 
Jane can carry my hand-bag and cloak. If you 
choose to come in the evening at ten, it will be 
an additional favor." 

"I certainly will do so. But Miss Trefoil, 
one word." They were now standing under cov- 
er of the portico in front of the railway-station, 
into which he was not to be allowed to enter. 
"What I fear is this: that in your first anger 
you may be tempted to do something which may 
be injurious to— to your prospects in life." 

" I have no prospects in life, Mr. Green." 

"Ah! that is just it. There are for most of 
us moments of unhappiness in which we are 
tempted by our misery to think that we are re- 
lieved at any rate from the burden . of caution, 
because nothing that can occur to us can make 
us worse than we are." 

"Nothing can make me worse than I am." 

"But in a few months or weeks," continued 
Mounser Green, bringing up, in his benevolence, 
all the wisdom of his experience, "we have got 
a new footing amidst our troubles, and then we 
may find how terrible is the injury which our 
own indiscretion has brought on us. I do not 
want to ask any questions, but — it might be so 
much better that you should abandon your in- 
tention, and go back with me." 

She seemed to be almost undecided for a mo- 
ment, as she thought over his words. But she 
remembered her pledge to herself that Lord Ruf- 
ford should find that she had not done with him 
yet. "I must go," she said, in a hoarse voice. 

"If you must — " 

"Imnstgo. I have no waj'^ out of it. Good- 
bye, Mr. Green ; I can not tell you how much 
obliged to you I am." Then he turned back, 
and she went into the station and took two first- 
class tickets for Rufford. At that moment Lord 
RufFord was turniTig himself comfortably in his 
bed. How would he have sprung up, and how 
would he have fled, had he known the evil that 
was coming upon him ! This happened on a 
Thursday, a day on which, as Arabella knew, the 
U. R. U. did not go out ; the very Thursday on 
which John Morton was buried and the will was 
read at Bragton. 

She was fully determined to speak her mind 
to the man, and to be checked by no feminine 
squeamishness. She would speak her mind to 
him if she could force her way into his presence. 
And, in doing tliis, she would be debarred by no 
etiquette. It might be that she would fail, that 
he would lack the courage to see her, and would 
run away, even before all his servants, when he 
should hear who was standing in his hall. But 
if he did so she would try again, even though 
she should have to ride out into the hunting-field 
after him. Face to face, she would tell him that 



he was a liar and a slanderer, and no gentleman, 
though she should have to run round the world 
to catch him. When she reached RuflFord, she 
went to the town and ordered breakfast and a 
carriage. As soon as she had eaten the meal, 
she desired the driver in a clear voice to take her 
to Ruftbrd Hall. Was her maid to go with her? 
No. She would be back soon, and her maid, 
would wait there till she had returned. 



CHAPTER LXVIL 

IN THE PARK, 

This thing that she was doing required an in- 
finite amount of pluck — of that sort of hardihood 
which we may not quite call courage, but which 
in a world well provided with policemen is infi- 
nitely more useful than courage. Lord RuiFord 
himself was endowed with all the ordinary brav- 
ery of an Englishman, but he could have flown 
as soon as run into a lion's den, as Arabella was 
doing. She had learned that Lady Penwether 
and Miss Penge were both at RuflTord Hall, and 
understood well the difficulty there would be in 
explaining her conduct should she find herself in 
their presence. And there were all the servants 
there to stare at her, and the probability that she 
might be shown to the door, and told that no one 
there would speak to her. She saw it all be- 
fore her, and knew how bitter it might be ; but 
her heart was big enough to carry her through 
it. She was dressed A-ery simply, but still by no 
means dowdily, in a black-silk dress; and though 
she wore a thick veil when she got out of the fly 
and rang the door -bell, she had been at some 
pains with her hair before she left the inn. Her 
purpose was revenge ; but still she had an eye to 
the possible chance — the chance barely possible 
of bringing the man to submit. 

When the door was opened she raised her veil 
and asked for Lord Rufford ; but as she did so 
she walked on through the broad passage which 
led from the front door into a wide central space 
which they called the billiard-room, but which re- 
ally was the hall of the house. This she did as 
a manifesto that she did not mean to leave the 
house because she might be told that he was out, 
or could not be seen, or that he was engaged. 
It was then nearly one o'clock, and no doubt he 
would be there for luncheon. Of course he might 
be in truth away from home, but she must do 
her best to judge of that by the servant's manner. 
The man knew her well, and not improbably had 
heard something of his master's danger. He 
was, however, very respectful, and told her that 
his lordship was out in the grounds, but that 
Lady Penwether was in the drawing-room. 
Then a sudden thought struck her, and she 
asked the man whether he would show her in 
what part of the grounds slie might find Lord 
Rufford. Upon that he took her to the front 
door, and, pointing across the park to a belt of 
trees, showed her three or four men standing 
round some piece of work. He believed, he 
said, that one of those men was his lordship. 

She bowed her thanks, and was descending the 
steps on her way to join the group, when whom 
sliould she see but Lady Penwether coming irUo 
the house with her garden -hat and gloves. It 
was unfortunate; but she would not allow her- 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



159 



self to be stopped by Lady Penwether. She 
bowed stiffly, and would have passed on without 
a word, but that was impossible. "Miss Tre- 
foil!" said Lady Penwether, with astonishment. 

"Your brother is just across the park. I 
think I see him, and will go to him." 

"I had better send and tell him that you are 
here," said her ladyship. 

"I need not trouble you so fai*. I can be my 
own messenger. Perhaps you will allow the fly 
to be sent round to the yard for half an hour. " 
As she said this, she was still passing down the 
steps. 

15ut Lady Penwether knew that it behooved 
her to prevent this if it might be possible. Of 
late she had had little or no conversation with 
her brother about Miss Trefoil, but she had heard 
much from her husband. She would be justified, 
she thought, in saying or in doing almost any 
thing which would save him from such an en- 
counter. "I really think," she said, "that he 
had better be told that you are here," and as she 
spoke she strove to put herself in the visitor's 
way. "You had better come in. Miss Trefoil, 
and he shall be informed at once." 

"By no means. Lady Penwether. I would 
not for worlds give him or you so much trouble. 
I see him, and I will go to him." Then Lady 
Penwether absolutely put out her hand to detain 
her; but Arabella shook it off angrily, and looked 
into the other woman's face with fierce eyes. 
"Allow me," she said, " to conduct myself at 
this moment as I may think best. I shall do so, 
at any rate." Then she stalked on, and Lady 
Penwether saw that any contest was hopeless. 
Had she sent the servant on with all his speed, 
so as to gain three or four moments, her brother 
could hardly have fled through the trees in face 
of the enemy. 

Lord Rufford, who was busy planning the pro- 
longation of a ha-ha fence, saw nothing of all 
this ; but after a while he was aware that a wom- 
an was coming to him, and then gradually he 
saw who that woman was. Arabella, when she 
had found herself advancing closer, went slowly 
enough. She was sure of her prey now, and was 
wisely mindful that it might be well that she 
should husband her breath. The nearer she 
drew to him the slower became her pace, and 
more majestic. Her veil was well thrown back, 
and her head was raised in the air. She knew 
these little tricks of deportment, and could carry 
herself like a queen. He had taken a moment 
or two to consider. Should he fly ? It was pos- 
sible. He might A-ault over a railed fence in 
among the trees, at a spot not ten yards from 
her, and then it would be impossible that she 
should run him down. He might have done it, 
had not the men been there to see it. As it was, 
he left them in the other direction, and came 
forward to meet her. He tried to smile pleas- 
antly as he spoke to her. "So I see that you 
would not take my advice," he said. 

"Neither your advice nor your money, my 
lord." 

"Ah, I was so sorry about that ! But, indeed, 
indeed, the fault was not mine." 

"They were your figures that I saw upon the 
paper, and by your orders, no doubt, that the 
lawyer acted. But I have not come to say much 
of that. You meant, I suppose, to be gracious." 

"I meant to be — good-natured." 



"I dare say. You were willing enough to 
give away what you did not want. But there 
must be more between us than any question of 
money. Lord Rufford, you have treated me most 
shamefully." 

" I hope not. I think not." 

"And you yourself must be well aware of it — 
quite as well aware of it as I am. You have 
thrown me over and absolutely destroyed me; 
and why?" He shrugged his shoulders. "Be- 
cause you have been afraid of others ; because 
your sister has told you that you were mistaken 
in your choice. The women around you iiave 
been too many for you, and have not allowed you 
to dispose of your hand, and your name, and 
your property as you pleased. I defy you to say 
that this was not your sister's doing." He was 
too much astounded to contradict her rapidly, 
and then she passed on, not choosing to give him 
time for contradiction. "Will you have the 
hardihood to say that you did not love me?" 
Then she paused, thinking that he would not 
dare to conti;adict her then, feeling that in that 
she was on strong ground. "Were you lying 
when you told me that you did ? What did you 
mean, when I was in your ai'ms up in the house 
there? What did you intend me to think that 
you meant ?" Then she stopped, standing Avell 
in front of him, and looking fixedly into his face. 

This was the very thing that he had feared. 
Lord Augustus had been a trouble; the duke's 
letter had been a trouble; Lady Augustus Iiad 
been a trouble ; and Sir George's sermons had 
been troublesome. But what were they all when 
compared to this ? How is it possible that a man 
should tell a girl that he has not loved her, when 
he has embraced her again and again ? He 
may know it, and she may know it, and each 
may know that the other knows it; but to say 
that he does not, and did not then, love her, is 
beyond the scope of his audacity, unless he be a 
heartless Nero. ' ' No one can grieve about this 
so much as I do," he said, weakly. 

" Can not I grieve more, do you think — I who 
told all my relatives that I was to become your 
wife, and was justified in so telling them? AVas 
I not justified?" 

"I think not." 

' ' You think not ! What did you mean, then ? 
What were you thinking of when we were com- 
ing back in the carriage from Stamford — when, 
with your arms round me, you swore that you 
loA'ed me better than all the world ? Is that 
true? Did you so swear?" What a question 
for a man to have to answer ! It was becoming 
clear to him that there was nothing for him but 
to endure and be silent. Even to this interview 
the gods would at last give an end. The hour 
would pass, though, alas! so slowly, and she 
could not expect that he should stand there to be 
rated much after the accustomed time for feed- 
ing. " You acknowledge that, and do you dare 
to say that I had no right to tell my friends ?" 

There was a moment in which he thought it 
was almost a pity that he had not married her. 
She was very beautiful in her present form — 
more beaiitiful, he thought, than ever. She was 
the niece of a duke, and certainly a very clever 
woman. He had not wanted money, and why 
shouldn't he have married her? As for hunting 
him, that was a matter of course. He was as 
much born and bred to be hunted as a fox. He 



160 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR 



could not do it now, as ho had put too much 
power into the hands of the Penwethers, but he 
almost wished that he had. "I never intended 
it," he said. 

" What did you intend? After what has oc- 
curred, I suppose I have a right to ask such a 
question. I have made a somewhat unpleasant 
journey to-day, all alone, on purpose to ask that 
question. What did you intend ?" (In his great 
annoyance he struck his shovel angrily against 
the ground.) "And I will not leave you till I 
get an answer to the question. What did you 
intend, Lord Ruiford?" There was nothing for 
him but silence, and a gradual progress back to- 
ward the house. 

But from the latter resource she cut him off 
for a time. ' ' You will do me the favor to re- 
main with me here till this conversation is end- 
ed. You can not refuse me so slight a request 
as that, seeing the trouble to which you have put 
me. I never saw a man so forgetful of words. 
You can not speak. Have you no excuse to of- 
fer ? not a word to say in explajiation of con- 
duct so black that I don't think here in England 
I ever heard a case to equal it ? If your sister 
had been treated so — " 

"It would have been impossible." 

"I believe it. Her cautious nature would 
have trusted no man as I trusted you. Her lips, 
doubtless, were never unfrozen till the settle- 
ments had been signed. With her it was a mat- 
ter of bargain, not of love. I can well believe 
that." 

"I will not talk about my sister." 

"It seems to me, Lord Ruiford, that you ob- 
ject to talk about any thing. You certainly have 
been very uncommunicative with reference to 
yourself. Were you lying when you told me 
that you loved me ?" 

"No." 

"Did I lie when I told the duchess that you 
had promised me your love ? Did I lie when I 
told my mother that in these days a man does 
not always mention marriage when he asks a girl 
to be his wife ? You said you loved me, and I 
believed you, and the rest was a thing of course. 
And you meant it — you know you meant it. 
When you held me in your arms in the carriage, 
you know you meant me to suppose that it would 
always be so. Then the fear of your sister came 
upon yon, and of your sister's husband — and you 
ran away ! I wonder whether you think your- 
self a man !" And yet she felt that she had not 
hit him yet. He was wretched enough — and 
she could see that he was wretched — but the 
wretchedness would pass away as soon as she 
was gone. How could she stab him so that the 
wound would remain ? With what virus could 
she poison her arrow, so that the agony might be 
prolonged? "And such a coward, too! I be- 
gan to suspect it when you started that night 
from Mistletoe, though I did not think then that 
3'ou could be all mean, all cowardly. From that 
day to this you have not dared to speak a word 
of truth. Eveiy word has been a falsehood." 

"By heavens, no!" 

"Every word a falsehood! and I, a lady — a 
lady whom you have so deeply injured, whose 
cruel injury even you have not the face to deny 
— am forced by your cowardice to come to you 
here, because you have not dared to come out to 
meet me. Is that true ?" 



" What good can it do ?" 

"None to me, God knows! You are such a 
thing that I would not have you, now I know 
you, though you were twice Lord Rufford. But 
I have chosen to speak my mind to you, and to 
tell you what I think. Did you suppose that 
when I said I would meet you face to face, I was 
to be deterred by such giiTs excuses as you 
made? I chose to tell you to your face that 
you are false, a coward, and no gentleman ; and 
though yoi; had hidden yourself under the very 
earth I would have found you." Then she 
turned round and saw Sir George Penwether 
standing close to them. 

Lord Rufford had seen him approaching for 
some time, and had made one or two futile at- 
tempts to meet him. Arabella's back had been 
turned to the house, and she had not heard the 
steps or observed the direction of her compan- 
ion's eyes. He came so near before he was seen 
that he heard her concluding words. Then Lord 
Rufford, with a ghastly attempt at pleasantry, 
introduced them. "George," he said, "I do 
not think you know Miss Trefoil. Sir George 
Penwether — Miss Trefoil." 

The interview had been watched from the 
house, and the husband had been sent down by 
his wife to mitigate the purgatory which she 
knew that her brother must be enduring, "My 
wife," said Sir George, "has sent me to ask 
Miss Trefoil whether she will not come in to 
lunch." 

"I believe it is Lord Rufifbrd's house," said 
Arabella. 

"If Miss Trefoil's frame of mind Avill allow 
her to sit at table with me, I shall be proud to 
see her," said Lord Rufford. 

"Miss Trefoil's frame of mind will not allow 
her to eat or to drink with such a dastard," said 
she, turning away in the direction of the park 
gates. "Perhaps, Sir George, you will be kind 
enough to direct the man who brought me here 
to pick me up at the lodge." And so she walk- 
ed away — a mile aci'oss the park — neither of 
them caring to follow her. 

It seemed to her, as she stood at the lodge 
gate, having obstinately refused to enter the 
house, to be an eternity before the fly came to 
her. When it did come she felt as though her 
strength would barely enable her to climb into 
it ; and when she was there she wept, with bit- 
ter, throbbing woe, all the way to Rufford. It 
was over now, at any rate. Now there was not 
a possible chance on which a gleam of hope 
might be made to settle. And how handsome 
he was, and how beautiful the place, and how 
perfect would have been the triumph could she 
have achieved it! One more word, one other 
pressure of the hand in the post-chaise, might 
have done it ! Had he really promised her mar- 
riage, she did not even now think that he would 
have gone back from his word. If that heavy, 
stupid duke would have spoken to him that night 
at Mistletoe, all would have been well ! But now 
— now there was nothing for her but weeping 
and gnashing of teeth. He was gone, and poor 
Morton was gone ; and all those others, whose 
memories rose like ghosts before her — they were 
all gone. And she wept as she thought that she 
might perhaps have made a better use of the gifts 
which Providence had put in her way. 

When Mounser Green met her at the station 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



161 



she was beyond measure weary. Through the 
\vhole journey she had been struggling to restrain 
her sobs so that her maid should neither hear 
nor see them. " Don't mind me, Mr. Green ; I 
am only tired — so tired!" she said, as she got 
into the carriage which he had bi-ought. 

He had with him a long, formal-looking letter 
addi'essed to herself. But she was too weary to 
open it that night. It was the letter conveying 
the tidings of the legacy which Morton had made 
in her favor. 



CHAPTER LXVIII. 

LORD BUFFOHD's MODEL FARM. 

At this time Senator Gotobed was paying a 
second visit to RufFord Hall. In the matter of 
Goarly and Scrobby he had never given way an 
inch. He was still strongly of opinion that a 
gentleman's pheasants had no right to eat his 
neighbor's corn, and that if damage were admit- 
ted, the person committing the injury should not 
take upon himself to assess the damage. He also 
thought — and very often declared his thoughts — 
that Goarly was justified in shooting not only 
foxes, but hounds also, when they came upon his 
property, and in moments of excitement had 
gone so far as to say that not even horses should 
be held sacred. He had, however, lately been 
driven to admit that Goarly himself was not all 
that a man should be, and that Mrs. Goarly's 
goose was an impostor. It was the theory, the 
principle, for which he combated, declaring that 
the evil condition of the man himself was due to 
the evil institutions among which he had been 
reared. By degrees evidence had been obtained 
of Scrobby's guilt in the matter of the red her- 
rings, and he was to be tried for the oiFense of 
putting down poison. Goarly was to be the prin- 
cipal witness against his brother - conspirator. 
Lord RufFord, instigated by his brother-in-law, 
and liking the spirit of the man, h.ad invited the 
Senator to stay at the Hall while the case was 
being tried at the RuiFord Quarter Sessions. I 
am afraid the invitation was given in a spirit of 
triumph over the Senator rather than with gen- 
uine hospitality. It was thought well that the 
American sliould be made to see in public the 
degradation of the abject creature with whom he 
had sympathized. Perhaps there were some who 
thought that in this way they would get the Sen- 
ator's neck under their heels. If there were such 
they were likely to be mistaken, as the Senator 
was not a man prone to submit himself to such 
treatment. 

He was seated at table with Lady Penwether 
and Miss Penge when Lord Rufford and his 
brother-ifi-law came into the room, after parting 
with Miss Trefoil in the manner described in 
the last chapter. Lady Penwether had watched 
their unwelcome visitor as she took her way 
across the park, and had whispered something 
to Miss Penge. Miss Penge understood the 
matter thoroughly, and would not herself have 
made the slightest allusion to the other young 
lady. Had the Senator not been there, the two 
gentlemen would have been allowed to take their 
places without a word on the subject. But the 
Senator had a marvelous gift of saying awkward 
things, and would never be reticent. He stood 
for a while at the window in the drawing-room 
11 



before he went across the hall, and even took up 
a pair of field-glasses to scrutinize tlie lady; and 
when they were all present he asked whether 
that was not Miss Trefoil whom he had seen 
down by the new fence. Lady Penwether, with- 
out seeming to look about her, did look about 
her for a few seconds to see whether the ques- 
tion might be allowed to die away unanswered. 
She perceived, from the Senator's face, that he 
intended to have an answer. 

"Yes," she said, "that was Miss Trefoil. I 
am very glad that she is not coming in to dis- 
turb us." 

"A great blessing," said Miss Penge. 

" Where is she staying?" asked the Senator. 

"I think she drove over from RufFord," said 
the elder lady. 

" Poor young lady ! She was engaged to mar- 
ry my friend, Mr. John Morton. She must have 
felt his death very bitterly. He was an excel- 
lent young man ; rather opinionated, and perhaps 
too much wedded to the traditions of his own 
country; but, nevertheless, a piiiiistaking, excel- 
lent young man. I had hoped to welcome her 
as Mrs. Morton in America." 

"He was to have gone to Patagonia," said 
Lord RufFord, endeavoring to come to himself 
after the sufferings of the moi'ning. 

"We should have seen him back in Wash- 
ington, sir. Whenever you have any thing good 
in diplomacy, you generally send him to us. Poor 
young lady ! Was she talking about him ?" 

"Not particularly," said his lordship. 

"She must have remembered that when she 
was last here he was of the party, and it was but 
a few weeks ago — only a little before Christmas. 
He struck me as being cold in his manner as an 
affianced lover. Was not that your idea, Lady 
Penwether ?" 

"I don't think I observed him especially." 

" I have reason to believe that he was ranch 
attached to her. She could be sprightly enough ; 
but at times there seemed to come a cold melan- 
choly upon her too. It is, I fancy, so with most 
of your English ladies. Miss Trefoil always gave 
me the idea of being a good type of the English 
aristocracy." Lady Penwether and Miss Penge 
drew themselves up very stiffly. "You admired 
her, I think, my lord." 

"Very much, indeed," said Lord RufFord, fill- 
ing his mouth with pigeon-pie as he spoke, and 
not lifting his eyes from his plate. 

"Will she be' back to dinner?" 

' ' Oh dear, no ! " said Lady Penwether. There 
was something in her tone which at last startled 
the Senator into perceiving that Miss Trefoil was 
not popular at RufFord Hall. 

" She only came for a morning call," said 
Lord Ruffbrd. 

" Poor young woman ! She has lost her hus- 
band, and, I am afraid, now has lost her friends 
also. I am told that she is not well off; and 
from what I see and hear, I fancy that here in 
England a young lady without a dowry can not 
easily replace a lover. I suppose, too. Miss Tre- 
foil is not quite in her first youth." 

"If you have done, Caroline," said Lady Pen- 
wether to Miss Penge, "I think we'll go into the 
other room." 

That afternoon Sir George asked the Senator 
to accompany him for a walk. Sir George was 
held to be responsible for the Senator's presence, 



162 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



and was told by the ladies that he must do some- 
thing with him. The next day, which was Fri- 
day, would be occupied by the affairs of Scrobby 
and Goarly, and on the Saturday he was to re- 
turn to town. The two started about three, with 
the object of walking round the park and the 
home farm — the Senator intent on his duty of 
examining the ways of English life to the reiy 
bottom. " I hope I did not say any thing amiss 
about Miss Trefoil," he remarked, as they passed 
through a shrubbery gate into the park. 

"No; I think not." 

"I thought your good lady looked as though 
she did not like the subject." 

"I am not sure that Miss Trefoil is very pop- 
ular with the ladies up there." 

' ' She's a handsome young woman and clev- 
er ; though, as I said before, given to melancholy, 
and sometimes fastidious. When we were all 
here I thought that Lord RufFord admired her, 
and that poor Mr. Morton was a little jealous." 

"I wasn't at Eufford then. Here we get out 
of the park on to the home farm. RufFord does 
it very well— very well, indeed. " 

"Looks after it altogether himself?" 

"I can not quite say that. He has a land- 
bailiff who lives in the house there." 

"With a salary?" 

"Oh yes ; one hundred and twenty pounds a 
year I think the man has." 

"And that house ?" asked the Senator. ' ' Why, 
the house and garden are worth fifty pounds a 
year." 

"I dare say they are. Of course it costs mon- 
ey. It's near the park, and had to be made or- 
namental. " 

"And does it pay?" 

"Well, no; I should think not. In point of 
fact, I know it does not. He loses about the 
value of the ground." 

The Senator asked a great many more ques- 
tions, and then began his lecture : " A man who 
goes into trade and loses by it, can not be doing 
good to himself or to others. You say, Sir George, 
that it is a model farm ; but it's a model of ruin. 
If you want to teach a man any other business, 
you don't specially select an example in which 
the proprietors are spending all their capital with- 
out any return. And if you would not do this 
in shoe-making, why in farming ?" 

"The neighbors are able to see how work 
should be done." 

"Excuse me, Sir George, but it seems to me 
that they are enabled to see how work should not 
be done. If his lordship would stick up over his 
gate a notice to the effect that every thing seen 
there was to be avoided, he might do some serv- 
ice. If he would publish his accounts half-year- 
ly in the village newspaper — " 

"There isn't a village newspaper." 

" In the Rujford Gazette. There is a Rufford 
Gazette, and Rufford isn't much more than a 
village. If he would publish his accounts half- 
yearly in the Rufford Gazette, honestly showing 
how much he had lost by his system, how much 
capital had been misapplied, and how much la- 
bor wasted, he might serve as an example, like 
the pictures of 'The Idle Apprentice.' I don't 
see that lie can do any other good, unless it be to 
the estimable gentleman who is allowed to occupy 
the pretty house. I don't think you'd see any 
thing like that model farm in our country, sir." 



"Your views, Mr. Gotobed, are utilitarian 
rather than picturesque." 

"Oh! if you say that it is done for the pict- 
uresque, that is another thing. Lord RufFord is 
a wealthy lord, and can afford to be picturesque. 
A greensward I should have thought handsomer, 
as well as less expensive, than a plowed field, 
but that is a matter of taste. Only, why call a 
pretty toy a model farm ? You might mislead 
the British rustics." 

They had by this time passed through a couple 
of fields which formed part of the model farm, and 
had come to a stile leading into a large meadow. 
"This, I take it," said the Senator, looking about 
him, "is beyond thelimits of my lord's plaything." 

"This is Shugborough," said Sir George, 
"and there is John Runce, the occupier, on his 
pony. He, at any rate, is a model farmer." As 
he spoke Mr. Runce slowly trotted up to them, 
touching his hat, and Mr. Gotobed recognized 
the man who had declined to sit next to him at 
the hunting breakfast. Runce also thought that 
he knew the gentleman. "Do you hunt to- 
morrow, Mr. Runce?" asked Sir George. 

"Well, Sir George, no; I think not. I 
b'lieve I must go to Rufford and hear that fellow 
Scrobby get it hot and heavy." 

"We seem all to be going that way. Yoa 
think he'll be convicted, sir." 

" If there's a juryman left in the country worth 
his salt, he'll be convicted," said Mr. Runce, al- 
most enraged at the doubt. "But that other 
fellow — he's to get off. That's what kills me. 
Sir George." 

"You're alluding to Mr. Goarly, sir," said the 
Senator. 

"That's about it, certainly," said Runce, still 
looking very suspiciously at his companion. 

"I almost think he is the bigger rogue of the 
two," said the Senator. 

" Well," said Runce ; " well, I don't know as 
he ain't — six of one and half a dozen of the oth- 
er! That's about it." But he was evidently 
pacified by the opinion. 

" Goarly is certainly a rascal all round," con- 
tinued the Senator. Runce looked at him to 
make sure whether he was the man who had ut- 
tered such fearful blasphemies at the breakfast- 
table. "I think we had a little discussion about 
this before, Mr. Runce." 

"I am very glad to see you have changed 
your principles, sir." 

" Not a bit of it. I am too old to change my 
principles, Mr. Runce. And much as I admire 
this countiy, I don't think it's the place in which 
I should be induced to do so." Runce looked 
at him again with a scowl on his face and with 
a falling mouth. "Mr. Goarly is certainly a 
blackguard. " 

"Well, I rather think he is." 

"But a blackguard may have a good cause. 
Put it in your own case, Mr. Runce. If his lord- 
ship's pheasants eat up your wheat — " 

" They're welcome — they're welcome ! The 
more the merrier. But they don't. Pheasants 
know when they're well off." 

' ' Or if a crowd of horsemen rode over your 
fences, don't you think — " 

"My fences! They'd be welcome in my 
wife's bedroom, if the fox took that way. My 
fences! It's what I has fences for — to be rid- 
den over." 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



163 



"You didn't exactly hear what I have to say, 
Mr. Runce." 

"And I don't want. No offense, sir, if j'ou 
be a friend of my lord's ; but if his lordship was 
to say hisself that Goarly was right, I wouldn't 
listen to him. A good cause, and he going about 
at dead o' night with his pockets full of p'ison ! 
Hounds and foxes, all one ! — or little childer ei- 
ther, for the matter o' that, if they happened on 
the herrings!" 

"I have not said his cause was good, Mr. 
Runce. " 

"I'll wish you good-evening. Sir George," 
said the farmer, reining his pony round. " Good- 
evening to you, sir." And Mr. Runce trotted 
or rather ambled off, unable to endure another 
word. 

"An honest man, I dare say," said the Sen- 
ator. 

" Certainly, and not a bad specimen of a Brit- 
ish farmer." 

"Not a bad specimen of a Briton generally, 
but still, perhaps, a little unreasonable." After 
that Sir George said as little as he could, till he 
had bi'ought the Senator back to the hall. 

"I think it's all over now,'" said Lady Pen- 
wether to Miss Penge, when the gentlemen had 
left them alone in the afternoon. 

' ' I'ni sure I hope so — for his sake. What a 
woman, to come here by herself in that way !" 

" I don't think he ever cared for her in the 
least." 

" I can't say that I have troubled myself much 
about that, " replied Miss Penge. ' ' For the sake 
of the family generally, and the property, and all 
that, I should be very, very sorry to think that he 
was going to make her Lady Rufford. I dare 
say he has amused himself with her." 

' ' There was very little of that, as far as I can 
learn — very little encouragement indeed ! What 
we saw here was the worst of it. He was hard- 
ly with her at all at Mistletoe." 

" I hope it will make him more cautious, that's 
all," said Miss Penge. Miss Penge was now a 
great heiress, having had her lawsuit respecting 
certain shares in a Welsh coal-mine settled since 
we last saw her. As all the world knows, she 
came from one of the oldest commoner's fami- 
lies in the West of England, and is, moreover, a 
handsome young woman, only twenty-seven j^ears 
of age. Lady Penwether thinks that she is the 
very woman to be mistress of Rufford, and I do 
not know tiiat Miss Penge herself is averse to 
the idea. Lord Rufford has been too lately 
wounded to rise at the bait quite immediately; 
but his sister knows that her brother is impres- 
sionable, and that a little patience will go a long 
way. They have, however, all agreed at the 
hall that Arabella's name shall not again be men- 
tioned. 



CHAPTER LXIX. 

sceobby's trial. 

RuFFOKD was a good deal moved as to the 
trial of Mr. Scrobby. Mr. Scrobby was a man 
who not long since had held his head up in Ruf- 
ford and had the reputation of a well-to-do 
tradesman. Enemies had perhaps doubted his 
probity ; but he had gone on and prospered, and, 



two or three years before the events which are 
now chronicled, had retired on a competence. 
He had then taken a house with a few acres of 
land lying between Rufford and Rufford Hall, 
the property of Lord Rufford, and had com- 
menced genteel life. Many in the neighborhood 
had been astonished that such a man should 
have been accepted as a tenant in such a house ; 
and it was generally understood that Lord Ruf- 
ford himself had been very angry with his agent. 
Mr. Scrobby did not prosper greatly in his new 
career. He became a guardian of the poor, and 
quarreled with all the Board. He tried to be- 
come a municipal counselor in the borough, but 
failed. Then he quarreled with his landlord, in- 
sisted on making changes in the grounds which 
were not authorized by the terms of his holding, 
would not pay his rent, and was at last eject- 
ed, having caused some considerable amount of 
trouble. Then he occupied a portion of his Id- 
sure with spreading calumnies as to his lordship, 
and was generally understood to have made up 
his mind to be disagreeable. As Lord Rufford 
was a sportsman rather than any thing else, 
Sci-obby studied how he might best give annoy- 
ance in that direction, and some time before the 
Goarly affair had succeeded in creating consid- 
erable disturbance. When a man will do this 
pertinaciously, and when his selected enemy is 
wealthy and of high standing, he will generally 
succeed in getting a party round him. In Ruf- 
ford there were not a few who thought that 
Lord Rufford's pheasants and foxes were a nui- 
sance, though probably these persons had nev- 
er suffered in any way themselves. It was a 
grand thing to fight a lord, and so Scrobby had 
a party. 

When the action against his lordship was first 
threatened by Goarly, and when it was under- 
stood that Scrobby had backed him with money, 
there was a feeling that Scrobby was doing rath- 
er a fine thing. He had not, indeed, used his 
money openly, as the Senator had afterward 
done ; but that was not Scrobby's way. If Goar- 
ly had been ill-used, any help was legitimate, 
and the party, as a party, was proud of its 
man. But when it came to pass that poison 
had been laid down — "wholesale," as the hunt- 
ing-men said — in Diilsborough Wood, in the 
close vicinity of Goarly's house, then the party 
hesitated. Such strategy as that was disgust- 
ing ; but was there reason to think that Scrobby 
had been concerned in the matter? Scrobby 
still had an income, and eat roast meat or boiled 
every day for his dinner. Was it likely that 
such a man should deal in herrings and strych- 
nine? 

Nickem had been at work for the last three 
months, backed up by funds which had latterly 
been provided by the lord's agent, and had, in 
truth, run the matter down. Nickem had foimd 
out all about it, and in his pride had resigned 
his stool in Mr. Masters's office. But the Scrob- 
by party in Rufford could not bring itself to be- 
lieve that Nickem was correct. "That Goarly's 
hand had actually placed the herrings, no man 
either at Rufford or Diilsborough had doubted. 
Such was now Nickem's story. But of what 
avail would be the evidence of such a man as 
Goarly against such a man as Scrobby? It 
would be utterly Avorthless unless corroborated, 
and the Scrobby party was not yet aware how 



1G4 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



clever Nickem had been. Thus all Rufford was 
interested in the case. 

Lord Rufford, Sir George Penwether, his lord- 
ship's agent, and Mr. Gotobed had been sum- 
moned as witnesses — the expenditure of money 
by the Senator having by this time become no- 
torious ; and on the morning of the trial they all 
went into the town in his lordship's drag. The 
Senator, as the guest, was on the box-seat with 
his lordship, and as they passed old Runce trot- 
ting into Rufford on his nag, Mr. Gotobed began 
to tell the story of yesterday's meeting, complain- 
ing of the absurdity of the old farmer's anger. 

"Penwether told me about it," said the lord. 

" I suppose your tenant is a little crazy." 

"By no means. I thought he was right in 
what he said, if I understood Penwether." 

" He couldn't have been right. He turned 
from me in disgust, simply because I tried to 
explain to him that a rogue has as much right 
to be defended by the law as an honest man." 

' ' Runce looks upon these men as vermin which 
ought to be hunted down." 

"But they are not veimin — they are men; 
and till they have been found guilty, they are in- 
nocent men. " 

" If a man had murdered your child, would he 
be innocent in your eyes till he was convicted ?" 

"I hope so ; but I should be very anxious to 
bring home the crime against him. And should 
he be found guilty, even then he should not be 
made subject to other punishment than that the 
law awards. Mr. Runce is angry with me be- 
cause I do not think that Goarly should be crush- 
ed under the heels of all his neighbors. Take 
care, my lord ! Didn't we come round that cor- 
ner rather sharp ?" 

Then Lord Rufford emphatically declared that 
such men as Scrobby and Goarly should be 
crushed, and the Senator, with an inward sigh, 
declared that between landlord and tenant, be- 
tween peer and farmer, between legislator and 
rustic, thei'e was, in capacity for logical infer- 
ence, no difference whatever. The British heart 
might be all right ; but the British head was — 
ah, hopelessly wooden ! It would be his duty 
to say so in his lecture, and perhaps some good 
might be done to so gracious but so stolid a peo- 
ple, if only they could be got to listen. 

Scrobby had got down a barrister from Lon- 
don, and therefore tlie case was allowed to drag 
itself out through the whole day. Lord Rufford, 
as a magistrate, went on to the bench himself, 
though he explained that he only took his seat 
there as a spectator. Sir George and Mr. Goto- 
bed were also allowed to sit in the high place, 
thougli the Senator complained even of this. 
Goarly and Scrobby were not allowed to be 
there, and Lord Rufford, in his opinion, should 
also have been debarred from such a privilege. 
A long time was occupied before even a jury 
could be sworn, the barrister earning his money 
by browbeating the provincial bench and putting 
various obstacles in the way of the trial. As he 
was used to practice at the assizes, of couree he 
was able to domineer. This juror would not do, 
nor that : the chairman was all wrong in his 
law : the officers of the court knew nothing 
about it. At first there was quite a triumph for 
the Scrobbyites, and even Nickem himself was 
frightened. But at last the real case was al- 
lowed to begin, and Goarly was soon in the wit- 



ness-box. Goarly did not seem to enjoy the 
day, and was with difficulty got to tell his own 
story even on his own side. But the story, when 
it was told, was simple enough. He had met 
Mr. Scrobby accidentally in Rufford, and they 
two had together discussed the affairs of the 
young lord. They came to an agreement that 
the young lord was a tyrant and ought to be put 
down, and Scrobby showed how it was to be 
done. Scrobby instigated the action about the 
pheasants, and undertook to pay the expenses 
if Goarly would act in the other little matter. 
But when he found that the Senator's money 
was forthcoming, he had been any thing but as 
good as his word. Goarly swore that in hard 
cash he had never seen more than foin* shillings 
of Scrobby's money. As to the poison, Goarly 
declared that he knew nothing about it ; but he 
certainly had received a parcel of herrings from 
Scrobby's own hands, and, in obedience to Scrob- 
by's directions, had laid them down in Dillsbor- 
ough Wood the very morning on which the hounds 
had come there. He owned that he supposed 
that there might be something in the herrings, 
something that would probably be deleterious to 
hounds as well as foxes — or to children, should 
the herrings happen to fall into children's hands ; 
but he assured the court that he had no knowl- 
edge of poison, none whatever. Then he was 
made, by the other side, to give a complete and 
a somewhat prolonged account of his own life 
up to the present time, this information being of 
course required by the learned barrister on the 
other side ; in listening to which the Senator did 
become thoroughly ashamed of the Briton whom 
he had assisted with his generosity. 

But all this would have been nothing had not 
Nickem secured the old woman who had sold the 
herrings, and also the chemist from whom the 
strychnine had been purchased, as much as three 
years previously. This latter feat was Nickem 's 
great triumph — the feeling of the glory of which 
induced him to throw up his employment in Mr. 
Masters's office, and thus brought him and his 
family to absolute ruin within a few months, in 
spite of the liberal answers which were made by 
Lord Rufford to many of his numerous appeals. 
Away in Norrington the poison had been pur- 
chased as much as three years ago, and yet Nick- 
em had had the luck to find it out. When the 
Scrobbyites heard that Scrobby had gone all the 
way to Norrington to buy strychnine to kill rats, 
they were Scrobbyites no longer. ' ' I hope they'll 
hang 'un! I do hope they'll hang 'un!" said 
Mr. Runce, quite out loud, from his crowded seat 
just behind the attorney's bench. 

The barrister of course struggled hard to earn 
his money. Though he could not save his client, 
he might annoy the other side. He insisted, 
therefore, on bringing the whole affair of the 
pheasants before the court, and examined the 
Senator at great length. He asked the Senator 
whether he had not found himself compelled to 
sympathize with the wrongs he had witnessed. 
The Senator declared that he had witnessed no 
wrongs. Why, then, had he interfered ? Be- 
cause he had thought that there might be wrong, 
and because he wished to see what power a poor 
man in this country would have against a rich 
one. He was induced still to think that Goarly 
had been ill-treated about the pheasants ; but he 
could not take upon himself to say that he had 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



165 



witnessed any wrong done. Bat he was quite 
sure that the system on which such things were 
managed in England was at variance with that 
even justice which prevailed in his own country. 
Yes ; by his own country he did mean Mikewa. 
He could tell that learned gentleman, in spite of 
his sneers, and in spite of his evident ignorance 
of geography, that nowhere on the earth's sur- 
face was justice more purelj' administered than 
in the great Western State of Mikewa. It was 
felt by every body that the Senator had the best 
of it. 

Mr. Scrobby was sent into durance for twelve 
months with hard labor, and Goarly was con- 
veyed away in the custody of the police, lest he 
should be torn to pieces by the rough lovers of 
hunting who were congregated outside. When 
the sentence had reached Mr. Runce's ears, and 
had been twice explained to him, first by one 
neighbor and then by another, his face assumed 
the very look which it had worn when he car- 
ried away his victuals from the Senator's side at 
RufFord Hall, and when he had turned his pony 
round on his own land on the previous evening. 
The man had killed a fox, and might have kill- 
ed a dozen hounds, and was to be locked up only 
for twelve months! He indignantly asked his 
neighbor what had come of Van Diemen's Land, 
and what was the use of Botany Bay ? 

On their way back to Rufford Hall, Lord Ruf- 
ford would have been triumphant, had not the 
Senator checked him. " It's a bad state of 
things, altogether, " he said. "Of course, the 
promiscuous use of strychnine is objectionable." 

"Rather," said his lordship. 

" But is it odd that an utterly uneducated 
man, one whom his country has left to grow up 
in the ignorance of a brute, should have recourse 
to any measure, however objectionable, when the 
law will absolutely give him no redress against 
the trespass made by a couple of hundred horse- 
men?" Lord RufFord gave it up, feeling the 
Senator to be a man with whom he could not 



CHAPTER LXX. 

AT LAST. 

When once Mrs. Morton had taker, her de- 
parture for London, on the day after her grand- 
son's death, nothing further was heard of her at 
Bragton. She locked up every thing and took 
all the keys away, as though still hoping — against 
hope — that the will might turn out to be other 
than she expected. But when the lawyer came 
down to read the document he brought the keys 
back with him, and no further tidings reached 
Dillsborough respecting the old woman. She 
still drew her income as she had done for half a 
century, but never even came to look at the 
stone which Reginald put up on the walls of 
Bragton church to perpetuate the memory of 
his cousin. What moans she made she made in 
silent obscurity, and devoted tlie reraaindei* of 
her years to putting together money for members 
of her own family who took no notice of her. 

After the funeral. Lady Ushant returned to 
the house at the request of her nephew, who de- 
clared his purpose of remaining at Hoppet Hall. 
She expostulated with him, and received from 
him an assurance that he would take up his res- 



idence as squire at Bragton as soon as he mar- 
ried a wife — should he ever do so. In the 
mean time he could, he thought, perfonn his du- 
ties from Hoppet Hall as well as on the spot. 
As a residence for a bachelor he preferred, he 
said, Hoppet Hall to the park. Lady Ushant 
yielded, and returned once again to her old 
home, the house in which she had been born, 
and gave up her lodgings at Cheltenham. The 
word that he said about his possible marriage 
set her mind at work, and induced her to put 
sundry questions to him. "Of course you will 
marry ?" she said. 

"Men who have property to leave behind 
them usually do marry; and as I am not wiser 
than other's, I probably may do so. But I will 
not admit that it is a matter of course. I may 
escape yet." 

"I do hope you will marry. I hope it may 
be before I die, so that I may see her." 

" And disapprove of her, ten to one." 

" Certainly I shall not, if you tell me that yon 
love her. " 

" Then I will tell you so — to prevent disagree- 
able results." 

" I am quite sure there must be somebody 
that you like, Reginald," she said, after a pause. 

" Are you ? I don't know that I have shown 
any very strong preference. I am not disposed 
to praise myself for many things, but I really do 
think that I have been as undemonstrative as 
most men of mv age." 

" Still I did hope— " 

"What did you hope?" 

"I won't mention any name. I don't think 
it is right. 1 have observed that more harm 
than good comes of such talking, and I have de- 
termined always to avoid it. But — " Then 
there was another pause. " Remember how old 
I am, Reginald, and when it is to be done, give 
me, at any rate, the pleasure of knowing it." Of 
course he knew to whom she alluded, and of 
course he laughed at her feeble caution. But 
he would not say a word to encourage her to 
mention the name of Maiy Masters. He thought 
that he was sure that, were the girl free, he would 
now ask her to be his wife. If he loved any one, 
it was her. If he had ever known a woman with 
whom he thought it would be pleasant to share 
the joys and labors of life, it was Mary Masters. 
If he could imagine that any one constant com- 
panion would be a joy to him, she would be that 
person. But he had been distinctly informed 
that she was in love with some one, and not for 
worlds would he ask for that which had been 
given to another ; and not for worlds would he 
hazard the chance of a refusal. He thought 
that he could understand the delight, that he 
could thoroughly enjoy the rapture, of hearing 
her whisper, with downcast eyes, that she could 
love him. He had imagination enough to build 
castles in the air in which she reigned as prin- 
cess, in which she would lie with her head upon 
his bosom and tell him that he was her chosen 
prince. But he would hardly know how to bear 
himself should he ask in vain. He believed he 
could love as well as Lawrence Twentyman, but 
he was sure that he could not continue his quest 
as that young man had done. 

When Lady Ushant had been a day or two at 
the house, she asked him whether she might in- 
vite Mary there as her guest — as her perpetual 



166 



THE AMEEICAN SENATOK. 



guest. "I have no objection in life," he said ; 
" but take care that you don't interfere with her 
happiness." 

" Because of her father and sisters?" suggest- 
ed the innocent old lady. 

" ' Has she a father, has she a mother ; 

Or has she a dearer one still than all other ?' " 

said Eeginald, laughing. 

"Perhaps she has." 

' ' Then don't interfere with her happiness in 
that direction. How is she to have a lover come 
to see her out here ?" 

" Why not ? I don't see why she shouldn't 
have a lover here as well as in Dillsborough. I 
don't object to lovers, if they are of the proper 
sort, and I am sure Mary wouldn't have any thing 
else." Eeginald told her she might do as she 
pleased, and made no further inquiry as to Mary's 
lovers. 

A few days afterward Mary went, with her 
boxes, to Bragton — Mrs. Masters repeating her 
objections, but repeating them with but little en- 
ergy. Just at this time a stroke of good fortune 
befell the Masters family generally, which great- 
ly reduced her power over her husband. Eegi- 
nald Morton had spent an hour in the attorney's 
office, and had declared his purpose of restoring 
Mr. Masters to his old family position in regard 
to the Bragton estate. When she heard it she 
felt at once that her dominion was gone. She 
had based every thing on the growing inferiority 
of her husband's position, and now he was about 
to have all his gloiy back again ! She had in- 
veighed against gentlemen from the day of her 
marriage, and here he was again to be immei'sed 
up to his eyes in the affairs of a gentleman. And 
then she had been so wrong about Goarly, and 
Lord Euiford had been so much better a client ! 
And ready money had been so much more plen- 
tiful of late, owing to poor John Morton's ready- 
handed honesty! She had very little to say 
about it when Mary packed her boxes and was 
taken in Mr. Eunciman's fly to Bragton. 

Since the old days, the old days of all — since 
the days to which Eeginald had referred when 
he asked her to pass over the bridge with him 
— she had never yet walked about the Bragton 
grounds. She had often been to the house, vis- 
iting Lady Ushant; but she had simply gone 
thither and returned. And, indeed, when the 
house had been empty, the walk from Dillsbor- 
ough to the bridge and back had been sufficient 
exercise for herself and her sisters. But now 
she could go whither she listed and bring her 
memory to all the old spots. With the tenaci- 
ty as to household matters which characterized 
the ladies of the country some years since. Lady 
Ushant employed all her mornings and those of 
her young friend in making inventories of every 
thing that was found in the house ; but her after- 
noons were her own, and she wandered about 
with a freedom she never had known before. 
At this time Eeginald Morton was up in Lon- 
don, and had been away nearly a week. He 
had gone intending to be absent for some unde- 
fined time, so that Lady Ushant and Mrs. Hop- 
kins were free from all interruption. It was as 
yet only the middle of March, and the Lion had 
not altogether disappeared ; but still Mary could 
get out. She did not care much for the wind ; 
and she roamed about among the leafless shrub- 



beries, thinking probably not of many things, 
meaning always to think of the past, but unable 
to keep her mind from the futui'e, the future 
which would so soon be the present. How long 
would it be before the coming of that stately 
dame? Was he in quest of her now ? Had he 
perhaps postponed his demand upon her till fort- 
une had made him rich ? Of course she had 
no right to be soiry that he had inherited the 
property which had been his almost of right; 
but yet, had it been otherwise, might she not 
have had some chance ? But, oh, if he had said 
a word to her, only a word more than he had 
spoken already — a word that might have sound- 
ed like encouragement to others besides herself, 
and then have been obliged to draw back be- 
cause of the duty which he owed to the property 
— how much worse would that have been ! She 
did own to herself that the Squire of Bragton 
should not look for his wife in the house of a 
Dillsborough attorney. As she thought of this, 
a tear ran down her cheek and trickled down on 
to the wooden rail of the little bridge. 

"There's no one to give you an excuse now, 
and you must come and walk round with me," 
said a voice close to her ear, 

"Oh, Mr. Morton! how you have startled 
me!" 

"Is there any thing the matter, Maiy?" said 
he, looking up into her face. 

"Only you have startled me so." 

"Has that brought tears into your eyes?" 

"Well, I suppose so," she said, trying to 
smile, "You were so very quiet, and I thought 
you were in London." 

" So I was this morning, and now I am here. 
But something else has made you unhappy." 

"No; nothing." 

" I wish we could be friends, Mary : I wish I 
could know your secret. You have a secret ?" 

" No, " she said, boldly. 

" Is there nothing ?" 

"What should there be, Mr. Morton ?" 

"Tell me why you were crying." 

' ' I was not crying. Just a tear is not cryifig. 
Sometimes one does get melancholy. One can't 
cry when there is any one to look, and so one 
does it alone. I'd have been laughing if I knew 
that you were coming. " 

" Come round by the kennels. You can get" 
over the wall, can't you?" 

" Oh yes," 

"And we'll go down the old orchard, and get 
out by the corner of the park fence," Then he 
walked and she followed him, hardly keeping 
close by his side, and thinking, as she went, how 
foolish she had been not to have avoided the 
perils and fresh troubles of such a walk. When 
he was helping her over the wall he held her 
hands for a moment, and she was aware of un- 
usual pressure. It was the pressure of love — or 
of that pretense of love which young men, and 
perhaps old men, sometimes permit themselves 
to affect. In an ordinary way Mary would have 
thought as little of it as another girl. She might 
feel dislike to the man, but the affair would be 
too light for resentment. With this man it was 
different. He certainly was not justified in mak- 
ing the slightest expression of factitious affection. 
He, at any rate, should have felt himself bound 
to abstain from any touch of peculiar tenderness. 
She would not say a word. She would not even 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



167 



look at him with angi^ eyes. But she twitched 
both her hands away from him as she sprung to 
the ground. Then there was a passage across 
the orchard, not more than a hundred yards, and 
after that a stile. At the stile she insisted on 
using her own hand for the custody of her dress. 
She would not even touch his outstretched arm. 
"You are very independent," he said. 

"I have to be so." 

" I can not make you out, Mary. I wonder 
whether there is still any thing rankling in your 
bosom against me." 

" Oh dear, no. What should rankle with me?" 

"What indeed, unless you resent my — regard," 

"I am not so rich in friends as to do that, 
Mr. Morton." 

" I don't suppose there can be many people 
who have the same soit of feeling for you that I 
have. " 

" There are not many who have known me so 
long, certainly." 

"You have some friend, I know," he said. 

"More than one, I hope." 

" Some special friend. Who is he, Mary?" 

"I don't know what you mean, Mr. Morton." 
"She then thought that he was still alluding to 
Lawrence Twentyman. 

"Tell me, Mary." 

" What am I to tell you ?" 

" Your father says that there is some one." 

"Papa!" 

' ' Yes — your father. " 

Then she remembered it all — how she had 
been driven into a half confession to her father. 
She could not say there was nobody. She cer- 
tainly could not say who that some one was. 
She could not be silent, for by silence she would 
be confessing a passion for some other man — a 
passion which certainly had no existence. "I 
don't know why papa should talk about me," she 
said, "and I certainly don't know why you 
should repeat what he said. " 

"But there is some one?" She clenched her 
fist, and hit out at the air with her parasol, and 
knit her brows as she looked up at him with a 
glance of fire in her eye which he had never seen 
there before. "Believe me, Mary," he said — 
"if ever a girl had a sincere friend, you have 
one in me. I would not tease you by imperti- 
neiace in such a matter. I will be as faithful to 
you as the sun. Do you love any one ?" 

"Yes," she said, turning round at him with 
ferocity and shouting out her answer as she 
pressed on. 

" Who is he, Mary ?" 

"What right have you to ask me? What 
right can any one have ? Even your aunt would 
not press me as you are doing." 

"My aunt could not have the same interest. 
Who is he, Mary ?" 

"I, will not tell you." 

He paused a few moments, and walked on a 
step or two before he spoke again. "I would 
it were I," he said. 

" What ! " she ejaculated. 

" I would it were I," he repeated. 

One glance of her eye stole itself round into 
his face, and then her face was turned quick- 
ly to the ground. Her parasol, which had been 
raised, drooped listless from her hand. All un- 
consciously she hastened her steps, and became 
aware that the tears were streaming from, her 



eyes. For a moment or two it seemed to her 
that all was still hopeless. If he had no more 
to say than that, certainly she had not a word. 
He had made her no tender of his love. He 
had not told her that in very truth she was his 
chosen one. After all, she was not sure that 
she understood the meaning of those words, "I 
would it were I." But the tears were coming so 
quick that she could see nothing of the things 
around her, and she did not dare even to put her 
hand up to her eyes. If he wanted her love — if 
it was possible that he really wished for it — why 
did he not ask for it? She felt his footsteps 
close to hers, and she was tempted to walk on 
quicker even than before. Then there came the 
fingers of a hand round her waist, stealing grad- 
ually on till she felt the pressure of his body on 
her shoulders. She put her hand up weakly to 
push back the intruding fingers, only to leave it 
tight in his grasp. Then — then was the first 
moment in which she realized the truth. After 
all, he did love her ! Surely he would not hold 
her there unless he meant her to know that 
he loved her! " Mary !" he said. To speak was 
impossible, but she turned round and looked at 
him with imploring eyes. " Mary, say that you 
will be my wife ! " 



CHAPTER LXXI. 
"my o^rs, own husband!" 

Yes ; it had come at last. As one may im- 
agine to be the certainty of paradise to the 
doubting, fearful, all but despairing soul, when 
it has passed through the gates of death and 
found in new worlds a reality of assured bliss, so 
\fas the assurance to her, conveyed by that sim- 
ple request, " Mary, say that you will be my 
wife." It did not seem to her that any answer 
was necessary. Will it be required that the 
spirit shall assent to its entrance into Elysium ? 
Was there room for doubt ? He would never go 
back from his word now. He would not have 
spoken the word had he not been quite, quite 
certain. And he had loved her all that time 
when she was so hard to him ! It must have 
been so. He had loved her, this bright one, even 
when he thought that she was to be given to that 
clay-bound rustic lover ! Perhaps that was the 
sweetest of it all, though in draining the sweet 
draught she had to accuse herself of hardness, 
blindness, and injustice. Could it be real ? Was 
it true that she had her foot firmly placed in 
Paradise ? He was there, close to her, with his 
arm still round her, and her fingers grasped with- 
in his. The word " wife" was still in her ears 
— surely the sweetest word in all the language ! 
What protestation of love could have been so 
eloquent as that question, "Will yon be my 
wife?" No trae man, she thought, ever ought 
to ask the question in any other form. But her 
eyes were still full of tears, and as she went she 
knew not where she was going. She had forgot- 
ten all her surroundings, being only aware that 
he was with her, and that no other eyes were on 
them. 

Then there was another stile, on reaching 
which he A^dthdrew his arm and stood facing her 
with his back leaning against it. " Why do you 
weep ?" he said ; " and, Mary, why do you not 



1C8 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



answer my question ? If there be any body else, 
you must tell me now." 

' ' There is nobody else," she said, almost angri- 
ly. " There never was. There never could be." 

" And yet there was somebody !" She pouted 
her lips at him, glancing up into his face for half 
a second, and then again hung her head down. 
"Mary, do not grudge me my delight." 

"No — no — no !" 

"But you do." 

"No. If tiiere can be delight to you in so 
poor a thing, have it all." 

"Then you must kiss me, dear." She gently 
came to liim — oh, so gently ! and with her head 
still hanging, creeping toward his shoulder, 
thinking, perhaps, that the motion should have 
been his, but still obeying him, and then, leaning 
against him, seemed as though she would stoop 
with her lips to his hand. But this he did not 
endure. Seizing her quickly in his arras, he drew 
her up, till her not unwilHng face was close to 
his, and there he kept her till she was almost 
frightened by his violence. ' ' And now, Mary, 
what do you say to my question ? It has to be 
answered." 

"You know." 

" But that will not do ; I will have it in words. 
I will not be shorn of my delight." 

That it should be a delight to him was the 
very essence of her heaven. " Tell me what to 
say," she answered. " How may I say it best ?" 

"Reginald Morton," he began. 

"Reginald," she repeated it after him, but 
went no foi-ther in naming him. 

"Because I love you better than any other 
being in the world — " 

"I do." 

"Ah, but say it." 

"Because I love you, oh I so much better thai 
all the world besides — " 

" Therefore, my own, own husband — " 

" Therefore, my own, own — " Then she 
paused. 

" Say the word." 

" My own, own husband — " 

"I will be your true wife." 

"I will be your own true loving wife." Then 
he kissed her again. 

" That," he said, "is our little marriage cer- 
emony under God's sky,' and no other can be 
more binding. As soon as j-^ou, in the plenitude 
of your maiden power, will fix a day for the oth- 
er one, and when we can get tliat over, then we 
will begin our little journey together." 

"But, Reginald!" 

"Well, dear!" 

"You haven't said any thing." 

" Haven't I ? I thought I had said it all." 

"But you haven't said it for yourself." 

" Y''ou say what you want, and I'll repeat it 
quite as well as you did." 

"I can't do that. Say it yourself." 

' ' I will be your true husband for the rest of 
the journey ; by which I mean it to be under- 
stood that I take you into partnership on equal 
terms, but that I am to be allowed to manage the 
business just as I please." 

"Yes; that you shall," she said, quite in 
earnest. 

' ' Only, as you are practical and I am vague, 
I don't doubt that every thing will fall into your 
hands before five vears are over, and that I shall 



have to be told whether I can afford to buy a 
new book, and when I am to ask all the gentry 
to dinner." 

" Now you are laughing at me because I shall 
know so little about any thing." 

" Come, dear ; let us get over the stile and go 
on for another field, or we shall never get round 
the park." Then she jumped over after him, 
just touching his hand. " I was not laughing 
at you at all. I don't in the least doubt that in 
a very little time you will know every thing 
about every tiling." 

" I am so much afraid." 

"You needn't be. I know yon well enough 
for that. But suppose I had taken such a one 
as that young woman who was here with my 
poor cousin. Oh, heavens!" 

' ' Perhaps you ought to have done so." 

"I thank the Lord that hath delivered me." 

"You ought — you ought to have chosen some 
lady of high standing," said Mary, thinking with 
ineffable joy of the stately dame who was not to 
come to Bragton. " Do you know what I was 
thinking only the other day about it ? that you 
had gone up to London to look for some proper 
sort of person." 

"And how did you mean to receive her?" 

"I shouldn't have received her at all. I 
should have gone awav. You can't do it now." 

"Can't I?" 

"What -were you thanking the Lord for so 
heartily ?" 

"For you." 

" Were 3-ou ? That is the sweetest thing you 
have said yet. My own — my darling — mj' dear- 
est ! If only I can so live that you may be able 
to thank the Lord for me in years to come !" 

I will not trouble the reader with all that was 
said at every stile. No doubt very much of what 
has been told was repeated again and again, so 
that the walk round the park was abnormally 
long. At last, however, they reached the house, 
and as they entered the hall Maiy whispered to 
him," Who is to tell your aunt?" she said. 
■ "Come along," he replied, striding upstairs 
to his aunt's bedroom, where he knew she would 
be at this time. He opened the door without any 
notice, and, having waited till Maiy had joined 
him, led her forcibly into the middle of the room. 
" Here she is," he said — "my wife elect." 

"Oh, Reginald!" 

"We have managed it all, and there needn't 
be any more said about it except to settle the 
day. Mary has been looking about the house 
and learning her duty already. She'll be able to 
have every bedstead and every chair by heart, 
which is an advantage ladies seldom possess." 
Then JIary rushed forward and was received 
into the old woman's arms. 

When Reginald left them, which he did very 
soon after the announcement was made, Lady 
Ushant had a great deal to say. " I have been 
thinking of it, my dear — oh, for years ; ever since 
he came to Hoppet Hall. But I am sure the 
best way is never to say any thing. If I had in- 
terfered, there is no knowing how it might have 
been." 

"Then, dear Lady Ushant, I am so glad you 
didn't ! " said Maiy — being tolerably sure, at the 
same time, within her own bosom, that her loving 
old friend could have done no harm in that di- 
rection. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



169 



" I wouldn't say a word, though I was always 
thinking of it. But then he is so odd, and no 
one can know what he means sometimes. That's 
what made me think, when Mr. Twentyraan was 
so very pressing — " 

" That couldn't — couldn't have been possible." 

* ' Poor young man !" 

"But I always told him it was impossible." 

" I wonder whether you cared about Reginald 
all that time." In answer to this Mary only hid 
her face in the old woman's lap. " Dear me! 
I suppose you did all along. But I am sure it 
was better not to say any thing; and now what 
will your papa and mamma say ?" 

"They'll hardly believe it at first." 

" I hope they'll be glad." 

"Glad! Why, what do you suppose they 
would want me to do ? Dear papa ! And dear 
mamma too, because she has really been good to 
me. I wonder when it must be?" Then that 
question was discussed at great length, and Lady 
Ushant had a great deal of very good advice to 
bestow. She didn't like long engagements, and 
it was very essential for Reginald's welfare that 
he should settle himself at Bragton as soon as 
possible. Mary's pleas for a long delay were not 
very urgent. 

That evening at Bragton was rather long and 
rather dull. It was almost the first that she had 
ever passed in company with Reginald, and there 
now seemed to be a necessity of doing something 
peculiar, whereas there was nothing peculiar to 
be done. It was his custom to betake himself to 
his books after dinner; but he could hardly do 
so with ease in company with the girl who had 
just promised him to be his wife. Lady Ushant, 
too, wished to show her extreme joy, and made 
flattering but vain attempts to be ecstatic. Mary, 
to tell the truth, was longing for solitude, feeling 
that she could not yet realize her happiness. 

Not even when she was in bed could she re- 
duce her mind to order. It would have been all 
but impossible even had he remained the com- 
paratively humble lord of Hoppet Hall ; but that 
the Squire of Bragton should be her promised 
husband was a marvel so great that from every 
short slumber she waked with fear of treacherous 
dreams. A minute's sleep might rob her of her 
joy, and declare to her in the moment of waking 
that it wiis all an hallucination. It was not that 
he was dearer to her, or that her condition was 
the happier, because of his position and wealth, 
but that the chance of his inheritance had lifted 
him so infinitely above her ! She thought of the 
little room at home whicli she generally shared 
with one of her sisters, of her all too scanty ward- 
robe, of her daily tasks about the house, of her 
step-mother's late severity, and of her father's 
cares. Surely he would not hinder her from be- 
ing good to them ; surely he would let the young 
girls come to her from time to time ! What an 
added happiness it would be if he would allow 
her to pass on to them some sparks of the pros- 
perity which he was bestowing on her! And 
then her thoughts traveled on to poor Larr}'. 
Would he not be more contented now — now, 
when he would be certain that no further frantic 
eilbrts could avail him any thing ? Poor Larry ! 
Would Reginald permit her to regard him as a 
friend ? And would he submit to friendly treat- 
ment? She could look forward and see him 
happy with his wife, the best loved of their 



neighbors — for who was there in the world bet- 
ter than Larry ? But she did not know how two 
men who had both been her lovers would allow 
themselves to be brought together. But, oh, 
what peril had been there ! It was but the other 
day she had striven so hard to give the lie to her 
love and to become Lany's wife. She shuddered 
beneath the bedclothes as she thought of the dan- 
ger she had run. One word would have changed 
all her paradise into a perpetual wail of tears 
and waste of desolation. When she Avaked in the 
morning from her long sleep, an eflfbrt was want- 
ing to tell her that it was all true. Oh, if it had 
slipped from her then! — if she had waked after 
such a dream to find herself loving in despair, 
with a sore bosom and angry heart ! 

She met him down-stairs, early, in the study, 
having her first request to make to him. Might 
she go in at once after breakfast and tell them 
all? "I suppose I ought to go to your father," 
he said. "Let me go first," she pleaded, hang- 
ing on his arm. " I would not think that I was 
not mindful of them from the very beginning." 
So she was driven into Dillsborough in the pony- 
carriage which had been provided for old Mrs. 
Morton's use, and told her own story. ".Papa," 
she said, going to the oflace door, "come into 
the house — come at once." And then, within 
her father's arms, while her step- mother listened, 
she told them of her triumph. "Mr. Reginald 
Morton wants me to be his wife, and he is com- 
ing here to ask you." 

' ' The Lord in heaven be good to us ! " said 
Mrs. Masters, holding up both her hands. "Is 
it true, child ?" 

"The squire!" 

"It is true, papa; and — and — " 

"And what, my love?" 

" When he comes to you, you must say I will 
be." 

There was not much danger on that score. 
"Was it he that you told me of?" said the at- 
torney. To this she only nodded her assent. 
" It was Reginald Morton all the time ? Well !" 

"Why shouldn't it be he?" 

" Oh no, my dear ! You are a most fortunate 
girl — most fortunate! But somehow I never 
thought of it that a child of mine should come 
to live at BragtoH, and have it, one may saj% 
partly as her own ! It is odd, after all that has 
come and gone. God bless you, my dear, and 
make you happy! You are a very fortunate 
child." 

Mrs. Masters was quite overpowered. She had 
thrown herself on to the old family sofa, and was 
fanning herself with her handkerchief. She had 
been wrong throughout, and was now complete- 
ly humiliated by the family success ; and yet she 
was delighted, though she did not dare to be tri- 
umphant. She had so often asked both father 
and daughter what good gentlemen would do to 
either of them ; and now the girl was engaged 
to marry the richest gentleman in the neighbor- 
hood ! In any expression of joy she would be 
driven to confess how wrong she had always 
been. How often had she asked what would 
come of Ushanting ! This it was that had come 
of Ushanting. The girl had been made fit to be 
the companion of such a one as Reginald Mor- 
ton, and had now fallen into the position which 
was suited to her. " Of course we shall see 
nothing of you now," she said, in a whimpering 



170 



THE AMEEICAN SENATOR 



voice. It was not a gracious speech, but it was 
almost justified by disappointments. 

"Mamma, you know that I shall never sepa- 
rate myself from you and the girls. " 

"Poor Larry!" said the woman, sobbing. 
" Of course it is all for the best ; but I don't know 
what he'll do now." 

' ' You must tell him, papa," said Mary ; ' ' and 
give him my love, and bid him be a man." 



CHAPTER LXXII. 

"bid him fiE A MAN." 

The little phaeton remained in Dillsborongh 
to take Mary back to Bragton. As soon as she 
was gone, the attorney went over to The Bush 
with the purpose of borrowing Runciman's pony, 
so that he might ride over to Chowton Farm 
and at once execute his daughter's last request. 
In the yard of the inn he saw Eunciman himself, 
and was quite unable to keep his good news to 
himself. "My girl has just been with me," he 
said, "and what do you think she tells me?" 

" That she is going to take poor Larry, after 
all? She might do worse, Mr. Masters." 

"Poor Larry! I am sorry for him. I have 
always liked Larry Twentyman. But that is all 
over now." 

"She's not going to have that tweedledum 
young parson, surely ?" 

"Reginald Morton has made her a set offer." 

" The squire !" Mr. Masters nodded his head 
three times. "You don't say so! Well, Mr. 
Masters, I don't begrudge it you. He might do 
worse. She has taken her pigs well to market 
at last ! " 

"He is to come to me at four this afternoon." 

"Well done, Miss Mary ! I suppose it's been 
going on ever so long ?" 

" We fathers and mothers," said the attorney, 
"never really know what the young ones are 
after. Don't mention it just at present, Runci- 
man. You are such an old friend that I couldn't 
help telling you." 

' ' Poor Larry ! " 

' ' I can have the pony, Eunciman ?" 

" Certainly you can, Mr. Masters. Tell him 
to come in and talk it all over with me. If we 
don't look to it, he'll be taking to drink regular. " 
At that last meeting at the club, when the late 
squire's Avill was discussed, at which, as the read- 
er may perhaps remember, a little supper was 
also discussed in honor of the occasion, poor 
Larry had not only been present, but had drunk 
so pottle- deep that the landlord had been obliged 
to put him to bed at the inn, and he had not 
been at all as he ought to have been after Lord 
Rufford's dinner. Such delinquencies were quite 
outside the young man's accustomed way of 
life. It had been one of his recognized virtues 
that, living as he did a good deal among sport- 
ing-men and with a full command of means, he 
had never drunk. But now he had twice sinned 
before the eyes of all Dillsborough, and Runci- 
man thought that he knew how it would be with 
a young man in his own house who got drunk 
in public to drown his sorrow. " I wouldn't see 
Larry go astray and spoil himself with liquor," 
said the good-natured publican, " for more than 



I should like to name." Mr. Masters promised 
to take the hint, and rode off on his mission. 

The entrance to Chowton Farm and Bragton 
gate were nearly opposite, the latter being per- 
haps a furlong nearer to Dillsborough. The at- 
torney, when he got to the gate, stopped a mo- 
ment, and looked up the avenue with pardonable 
pride. The great calamity of his life, the stun- 
ning blow which had almost unmanned him 
wiien he was young, and from which he had 
never quite been able to rouse himself, had been 
the loss of the management of the Bragton prop- 
erty. His grandfather and his father had been 
powerful at Bragton, and he had been brought 
up in the hope of walking in their paths. Then 
strangers had come in, and he had been dispos- 
sessed. But how was it with him now? It 
had almost made a young man of him again 
when Reginald Morton, stepping into his office, 
asked him as a favor to resume his old task. 
But what was that in comparison with this later 
triumph ? His own child was to be made queen 
of the place! His grandson, should*she be fort- 
unate enough to be the mother of a son, would 
be the squire himself! Hig visits to the place 
for the last twenty years had been very rare in- 
deed. He had been sent for lately by old Mrs. 
Morton, for a purpose, which, if carried out, 
would have robbed him of all his good fortune; 
but he could not remember when, before that, he 
had even passed through the gate-way. Now it 
would all become familiar to him again. That 
pony of Runciman's was pleasant in his paces, 
and he began to calculate whether the innkeep- 
er would part with the animal. He stood thus 
gazing at the place for some minutes, till he saw 
Reginald Morton in the distance turning a cor- 
ner of the road with Mary at his side. He had 
taken her from the phaeton, and had then insist- 
ed on her coming out with him before she took 
off her hat. Mr. Masters, as soon as he saw 
them, trotted off to Chowton Farm. 

Finding Larry lounging at the little garden 
gate, Mr. Masters got off the pony, and, taking 
the young man's arm, walked off with him to- 
ward Dillsborough Wood. ■ He told all his news 
at once, almost annihilating poor Larry by the 
suddenness of the blow. " Larry, Mr. Reginald 
Morton has asked my girl to marry him, and 
she has accepted him." 

" The new squire !" said Larry, stopping him- 
self on the path, and looking as though a gentle 
wind would suffice to blow him over. 

"I suppose it has been that way all along, 
Larry, though we have not known it." 

"It was Mr. Morton, then, that she told me 
of?" 

" She did tell you ?" 

"Of course there was no chance for me if he 
wanted her. But why didn't they speak out, so 
that I could have gone away? Oh, Mr. Masters ! " 

"It was only yesterday she knew it herself." 

"She must have guessed it." 

"No ; she knew nothing till he declared him- 
self. And to-day, this very morning, she has 
bid me come to you and let you know it. And 
she sent you her love." 

"Her love!" said Larry, chucking the stick 
which he held in his hands down to the ground 
and then stooping to pick it up again. 

" Yes ; her love. Those were her words, and 
I am to tell you from her — to be a man. " 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



171 



"Did she say that?" 

"Yes ; I was to come out to you at once, and 
bring you that as a message from her." 

"Be a man ! I could have been a man right 
enough if she would have made me one — as good 
a man as Reginald Morton, though he is Squire 
of Bragton. But of course I couldn't have given 
her a house like that, nor a carriage, nor made 
her one of the county people. If it was to go in 
that way, what could I hope for?" 

" Don't be unjust to her, Larry." 

" Unjust to her ! If giving her every blessed 
thing I had in the world at a moment's notice 
was unjust, I was ready to be unjust any day of 
the week or any hour of the day." 

" What I mean is, that her heart was fixed 
that way before Reginald Morton was Squire of 
Bragton. What shall I say in answer to her 
message ? You will wish her happiness ; will 
you not?" 

"Wish her happiness! Oh, heavens!" He 
could not explain what was in his mind. Wish 
her happiness ! yes — the happiness of the angels. 
But not him — nor yet with him ! And as there 
could be no arranging of this, he must leave his 
wishes unsettled. And yet there was a certain 
relief to him in the tidings he had heard. There 
was now no more doubt. He need not now re- 
main at Chowton, thinking it possible that the 
girl might even yet change her mind. 

"And you will bear in mind that she wishes 
you to be a man." 

" Why did she not make me one? But that 
is all, all over. You tell her from me that I am 
not the man to whimper because I am hurt. 
What ought a man to do that I can't do ?" 

"Let her know that you are going about your 
old pursuits. And, Larry, would you wish her 
to know how it was with you at the club last 
Saturday ?" 

" Did she hear of that ?" 

"I am sure she has not heard of it. But if 
that kind of thing becomes a habit, of course she 
will hear of it. All Dillsborough would hear of 
it, if that became common. At any rate, it is 
not manly to drown it in drink." 

"Who says I do that? Nothing will drown 
it!" 

"I wouldn't speak, if I had not known you so 
long, and loved you so well. What she means is 
that you should work." 

"I do work." 

"And hunt. Go out to-morrow and show 
yourself to every body." 

" If I could break my neck, I would." 

"Don't let every farmer's son in the county 
say that LawTence Twentyman was so mastered 
by a girl that he couldn't ride on horseback when 
she said him nay." 

"Every body knows it, Mr. Masters." 

"Go among them as if nobody knew it. I'll 
warrant that nobody will speak of it." 

"I don't think any one of 'em would dare to 
do that !" said Lariy, brandishing his stick. 

"Where is it that the hounds are to-morrow, 
Larry ?" 

" Here ; at the old kennel." 

" Go out and let her see that you have taken 
her advice. She is there at the house, and she 
will recognize you in the park. Remember that 
she sends her love to you, and bids you be a 
man. And, Larry, come in and see us some- 



times. The time will come, I don't doubt, when 
you and the squire will be fast friends." 
"Never!" 

" You do not know what time can do. I'll just 
go back now, because he is to come to me this 
afternoon. Tiy and bear up, and remember that 
it is she who bids you be a man." The attorney 
got upon his pony and rode back to Dillsboi-ough. 

Larry, who had come back to the 3'ard to see 
his friend off, returned by the road into the fields, 
and went wandering about for a while in Dills- 
borough Wood. "Bid him be a man!" Wasn't 
he a man ? Was it disgraceful to him as a man 
to be broken-hearted, because a woman would not 
love him ? If he were provoked, he would fight 
— perhaps better than ever, because he would be 
reckless. Would he not be ready to fight Regi- 
nald Morton with any weapon which could be 
thought of for the possession of Mary Masters ? 
If she were in danger, would he not go down into 
the deep, or through fire, to save her? Were 
not his old instincts of honesty and truth as 
strong in him as ever? Did manliness require 
that his heart should be invulnerable ? If so, he 
doubted whether he could ever be a man. 

But what if she meant that manliness required 
him to hide the wound ? Then there did come 
upon him a feeling of shame, as he remembered 
how often he had spoken of his love to those who 
were little better than strangers to him, and 
thought that perhaps such loquacity was opposed 
to the manliness which she recommended. And 
his conscience smote him as it brought to his rec- 
ollection the condition of his mind as he waked 
in Runciman's bed at The Bush on last Sunday 
morning. That, at any rate, had not been manly. 
How would it be with him if he made up his 
mind never to speak again to her, and certainly 
not to him, and to take care that that should be 
the only sign left of his suffering ? He would 
hunt, and be keener than ever; he would work 
upon the land with increased diligence ; he would 
give himself not a moment to think of any thing. 
She should see and hear what he could do — but 
he would never speak to her again. The hounds 
would be at the old kennels to-morrow. He 
would be there. The place, no doubt, was Mor- 
ton'.s property, but on hunting mornings all the 
lands of the county — and of the next counties if 
they can be reached — are the property of the 
hunt. Yes, he would be there ; and she would 
see him in his scarlet coat and smartest cravat, 
with his boots and breeches neat as those of Lord 
RufFord ; and she should know that he was do- 
ing as she bid him. But he would never speak 
to her again ! 

As he was returning round the wood, whom 
should he see skulking round the corner of it but 
Goarly ? 

"What business have you in here?" he said, 
feeling half inclined to take the man by the neck 
and drag him out of the copse. 

" I saw you, Mr. Twentyman, and I wanted 
just to have a word with you. " 

"You are the biggest rascal in all RufFord," 
said Lany. "I wonder the lads have left you 
with a whole bone in your skin." 

"What have I done worse than any other 
poor man, Mr. Twentyman? When I took them 
herrings I didn't know there was p'ison ; and if 
I hadn't took 'em, another would. I am going 
to cut it out of this, Mr. Twentyman." 



172 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



♦' May the go along with you !" said Lar- 
ry, wishing his neiglibor a very unpleasant com- 
panion. 

"And of course I must sell the place. Think 
what it would be to you ! I shouldn't like it to 
go into his lordship's hands. It's all through 
Bean, I know, but his lordship has had a down 
on me ever since he came to the property. It's 
as true as true about my old woman's geese. 
There's forty acres of it. What would you say 
to forty pounds an acre ?" 

The idea of having the two extra fields made 
Larry's mouth water, in spite of all his misfort- 
unes. The desire for land among such as Lar- 
ry Twentyman is almost a disease in England. 
With these two fields he would be able to walk 
almost round Dillsborough Wood without quit- 
ting his own property. He had been talking of 
selling Chowton within the last week or two. He 
had been thinking of selling it at the moment 
when Mr. Masters rode up to him. And yet now 
he was almost tempted to a new purchase by this 
man. But the man was too utterly a blackguard 
— was too odious to him. 

" If it comes into the market, I may bid for it 
as well as another," he said ; " but I wouldn't let 
myself down to have {iny dealings with you." 

" Then, Mr. Larry, ycfti shall never have a sod 
of it," said Goarly, dropping himself over the 
fence on to his own field. 

A few minutes afterward LaiTy met Bean, and 
told him that Goarly had been in the wood. 
"If I catch him, Mr. Twentyman, I'll give him 
sore bones," said Bean. " I wonder how he ever 
got back to his own place alive that day." Then 
Bean asked Larry whether he meant to be at the 
meet to-morrow, and Larry said that he thought 
he should. "Tony's almost afraid to bring them 
in even yet," said Bean ; " but if there's a her- 
ring left in this wood, I'll eat it myself — strych- 
nine and all." 

After that Larry went and looked at his horses, 
and absolutely gave his mare Bicycle a gallop 
round the big grass field himself. Then those 
who were about the place knew that something 
had happened, and that he was in a way to be 
cured. ' ' You'll luxnt to-morrow, won't you, Lar- 
ry?" said his mother, afi'ectionately. 

"Who told you?" 

" Nobody told me ; but you will, Larry, won't 
you ?" 

"May be I will." Then, as he was leaving 
the room, when he was in tiie door-way, so that 
she should not see his face, he told her the news. 
" She's going to marry the squire yonder." 

"Mary Masters!" 

"I always hated him from the first moment 
I saw him. What do you expect from a fellow 
who never gets atop of a horse ?" Then he turn- 
ed away, and was not seen again till long after 
tea-time. 



CHAPTER LXXIII. 

"is it tanti?" 

Reginald MoRTOK entertained serious thoughts 
of cleansing himself from the reproach which Lar- 
ry cast upon him when describing his character 
to his mother. "I think I shall take to hunt- 
ing, " he said to Mary. 

"But you'll tumble off, dear." 



" No doubt I shall, and I must try to begin in 
soft places. I don't see why I shouldn't do it 
gradually in a small way. I shouldn't ever be- 
come a Nimrod, liije Lord Rufi'ord or your par- 
ticular friend Mr. Twentyman." 

" He is my particular friend." 

" So I perceive. I couldn't shine as he shines, 
but I might gradually learn to ride after him at 
a respectful distance. A man at Rome ought to 
do as the Romans do." 

" Why, wasn't Hoppet Hall Rome as much as 
Bragton ?" 

"Well — it wasn't. While fortune enabled me 
to be happy at Hoppet Hall — " 

" That is unkind, Reg." 

"While fortune oppressed me with celibate 
misery at Hoppet Hall, nobody hated me for not 
hunting ; and as I could not very well afibrd it, 
I was not considered to be entering a protest 
against the amusement. As it is now, I find 
that unless I consent to risk my neck at any rate 
five or six times every winter, I shall be regard- 
ed in that light." 

"I wouldn't be frightened into doing any 
thing I didn't like," said Mary, 

"How do you know that I sha'n't lilje it? 
The truth is, I have had a letter this morning 
from a benevolent philosopher which has almost 
settled the question for me. He wants me to 
join a society for the suppression of British 
sports, as being barbarous and antipathetic to 
the intellectual pursuits of an educated man. I 
would immediately shoot, fish, hunt, and go out 
ratting, if I could hope for the least success. I 
know I should never shoot any thing but the dog 
and the gamekeepers, and that I should catch 
every weed in the river ; but I think that in the 
process of seasons I might jump over a hedge," 

"Kate will show you the way to do that," 

"With Kate and Mr. Twentyman to help me, 
and a judicious system of liberal tips to Tony 
Tuppett, I could make my way about on a qui- 
et old nag, and live respected by my neighbors. 
The fact is, I hate with my whole heart the trash 
of the philanimalist." 

"What is a — a — I didn't quite catch the thing 
you hate ?" 

" The thing is a small knot of self-anxious peo- 
ple who think that they possess among them all 
the bowels of the world." 

" Possess all the what, Reginald ?" 

" I said bowels — using an ordinary but very 
ill-expressed metaphor. The ladies and gentle- 
men to whom I allude, not looking very clearly 
into the systems of pains and pleasures in ac- 
cordance with which we have to live, put their 
splay feet down now upon this ordinary opera- 
tion and now upon tliat, and call upon the world 
to curse the cruelty of those who will not agree 
with them. A lady whose tippet is made from 
the skins of twenty animals who have been wired 
in the snow and then left to die of starvation — " 

"Oh, Reginald!" 

" That is the way of it. I am not now saying 
whether it is right or wrong. The lady with the 
tippet will justify the wires and the starvation be- 
cause, as she will say, she uses the fur. An hon- 
est blanket would keep her just as warm. But 
the fox who suffers perhaps ten minutes of ago- 
ny — should he not succeed, as he usually does, 
in getting away — is hunted only for amusement ! 
It is true that the one fox gives amusement for 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



173 



hours to perhaps some hundred ; but it is only 
for amusement. What riles me most is, that 
these would-be philosophers do not or will not 
see that recreation is as necessary to the world 
as clothes or food, and the providing of the one 
is ?.s legitimate a business as the purveying of 
the other." 

"People must eat, and wear clothes." 

"And practically they must be amused. They 
ignore the great doctrine of ' tauti.' " 

"I never heard of it." 

"You shall, dear, some day. It is the doc- 
trine by which you should regulate evexy thing 
you do and every word you utter. Now do you 
and Kate put on your hats, and we'll walk to the 
bridge." 

This preaching of a sermon took place after 
breakfast at Bragton on the morning of Satur- 
day, and the last order had reference to a scheme 
they had on foot to see the meet at the old ken- 
nels. On the previous afternoon Reginald Mor- 
ton had come into Dillsborough, and had very 
quietly settled every thing with the attorney. 
Having made up his mind to do the thing, he was 
very quick in the doing of it. He hated the 
idea of secrecy in such an aifair ; and when Mrs. 
Masters asked him whether he had any objection 
to have the marriage talked about, expressed his 
willingness that she should employ the town crier 
to make it public if she thought it expedient. 
"Oh, Mr. Morton, how very funny you are!" 
said the lady. "Quite in earnest, Mrs. Mor- 
ton," he replied. Then he kissed the two girls, 
who were to be his sisters, and finished the visit 
by carrying off the younger to spend a day or 
two with her sister at Bragton. " I know," he 
said, whispering to Mary as he left the front 
door, "that I ought not to go out hunting so 
soon after my poor cousin's death ; but as he was 
a cousin once removed, I believe I may walk as 
far as the bridge without giving offense." 

When they were tiieve they saw all the arriv- 
als, just as they were seen on the same spot a 
few months earlier by a very different party. 
Mary and Kate stood on tlie bridge together, 
while he remained a little behind leaning on the 
stile. Slie, poor girl, had felt some shame in 
showing herself, knowing that some who were 
present would have heard of her engagement, 
and that others would be told of it as soon as she 
was seen. "Are you ashamed of what you are 
going to do ?" he asked. 

"Ashamed! I don't suppose that there is a 
girl in England so proud as I am at this minute. " 

" I don't know that there is any thing to be 
proud of, but if you are not ashamed, why 
shouldn't you show yourself? Marriage is an 
honorable state!" She could only pinch his 
arm, and do as he bid hex*. 

Glomax in his tandeni, and Lord Rufford in 
his drag, were rather late. First there came one 
or two hunting-men out of the town, Runciman, 
Dr. Nupper, and the hunting saddler. Then 
there arrived Henry Stubbings, with a string of 
horses mounted by little boys, ready for his cus- 
tomers, and full of wailing to his friend Runci- 
man. Here was nearly the end of March, and 
the money he had seen since Christmas was lit- 
tle more, as he declared, than what he could put 
into his eye and see none the worse " Charge 
'era ten per cent, interest," said Runciman. 
" Then they thinks they can carry on for anoth- 



er year," said Stubbings, despondingly. While 
this was going on, Lariy walked his favorite 
mare Bicycle on to the ground, dressed with 
the utmost care, but looking very moody, almost 
fierce, as though he did not wish any body to 
speak to him. Tony Tuppett, who had known 
him since a boy, nodded at him affectionately, 
and said how glad he was to see him ; but even 
this was displeasing to Larry. He did not see 
the girls on the bridge, but took up his place 
near them. He was thinking so much of his 
own unhappiness and of what he believed others 
would say of him, that he saw almost nothing. 
There he sat on his mare, carrying out the pur- 
pose to which he had been led by Mary's mes- 
sage, but wishing with all his heart that he was 
back again, hidden within his own house at the 
other side of the wood. 

Mary, as soon as she saw him, blushed up to 
her eyes, then turning round looked with wistful 
eyes into the face of the man she was engaged 
to marry, and witii rapid step walked across the 
bridge up to the side of Larry's horse, and spoke 
to him with her sweet, low voice. "Larry," she 
said. He turned round to her very quickly, 
showing how much he was startled. Then she 
put up her hand to him, and of course he took 
it. "Larry, I am so glad to see you! Did 
papa give you a message ?" 

"Yes, Miss Masters. He told me — I know 
it all." 

" Say a kind word to me, Larry." 

"I — I — I — You know very well what's in 
my mind. Though it were to kill me, I should 
wish you well." 

"I hope you'll have a good hunt, Larry." 
Then she retired back to the bridge, and again 
looked to her lover to know whether he would 
approve. There were so few there, and Larry 
had been so far apart from the others, that 
she was sure no one had heard the few words 
which had passed between them ; nor could any 
one have obsei-ved what she had done, unless 
it were old Nupper, or Mr. Runciman, or Tony 
Tuppett. But yet she thought that it perhaps 
was bold, and that he would be angiy. But 
he came up to her, and placing himself between 
her and Kate, whispered into her ear, "Bravely 
done, my girl ! After a little I will try to be as 
brave, but I could never do it as well." Larry 
in the mean time had moved his mare away, and 
before the master had arrived was walking slow- 
ly up his own road to Chowton Farm. 

The captain was soon there, and Lord Rufford 
with his friends, and Harry Stubbings's string, 
and Tony were set in motion. But before they 
stirred there was a consultation — to which Bean, 
the gamekeeper, was called — as to the safety 
of Dillsborough Wood. Dillsborough Wood had 
not been drawn yet since Scrobby's poison had 
taken effect on the old fox, and there were some 
few who affected to think that there still might 
be danger. Among these were the master him- 
self, who asked Fred Botsey, with a sneer, wheth- 
er he thought that such hounds as those were to 
be picked up at every corner. But Bean again 
offered to eat any herring that might be there, 
poison included, and Lord Rufford laughed at 
the danger. "It's no use my having foxes, 
Glomax, if you won't draw the cover." This 
the lord said with a touch of anger, and the lord's 
anger, if really roused, might be injurious. It 



174 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



was therefore decided that the hounds should 
again be put through the Bragton shrubberies — 
just for compliment to the new squire ; and that 
then they should go off to Dillsborough Wood 
as rapidly as might be, 

Larry walked his beast all the way up home 
very slowly, and getting off her, put her into the 
stable and went into the house. 

"Is any thing wrong?" asked the mother. 

' ' Every thing is wrong. " Then he stood with 
his back to the kitchen fire for nearly half an 
hour without speaking a word. He was trying 
to force himself to follow out her idea of manli- 
ness, and telling himself that it was impossible. 
The first tone of her voice, the first glance at her 
face, had driven him home. Why had she call- 
ed him Larry again and again, so tenderly, in 
that short moment, and looked at him with those 
loving eyes ? Then he declared to himself, with- 
out uttering a word, that she did not understand 
any thing about it ; she did not comprehend the 
fashion of his love when she thought, as she did 
think, that a soft word would be compensation. 
He looked round to see if his mother or the serv- 
ant were there, and when he found that the coast 
was clear, he dashed his hands to his e3'es and 
knocked away the tears. He threw up both his 
arms and groaned, and then he remembered her 
message, "Bid him be a man." 

At that moment he heard the sound of horses, 
and going near the window, so as to be hidden 
from curious eyes as they passed, he saw the first 
whip trot on, with the hounds after him, and 
Tony Tuppett among them. Then there was a 
long string of horsemen, all moving up to the 
wood, and a carriage or two, and after them the 
stragglers of the. field. He let them all go by, 
and then he repeated the words again, "Bid him 
be a man." He took up his hat, jammed it on 
his head, and went out into the yard. As he 
crossed to the stables Runciman came up alone. 
" Why, Larry, you'll be late," he said. 

" Go on, Mr. Runciman, I'll follow." 

"I'll wait till you are mounted. You'll be 
better for somebody with you. You've got the 
mare, have you ? You'll show some of them 
your heels if they get away from here. Is she 
as fast as she was last year, do you think?" 

"Upon my word, I don't know," said Larry, 
as he dragged himself into the saddle. 

" Shake yourself, old fellow, and don't cany 
on like that. What is she, after all, but a girl ?" 
The poor fellow looked at his intending com- 
forter, but couldn't speak a word. "A man 
shouldn't let hisself be put upon by circumstances 
so as to be only half hisself. Hang it, man! 
cheer up, and don't let 'em see you going about 
like that ! It ain't what a fellow of your kidney 
ought to be. If they haven't found, I'm a nig- 
ger — and, by the holy, he's away ! Come along, 
Larry, and forget the petticoats for half an hour." 
So saying, Runciman broke into a gallop, and 
Larry's mare doing the same, he soon passed the 
innkeeper, and was up at the covert side just as 
Tony 'iuppett, with half a score of hounds round 
him, was forcing his way through the bushes, 
out of the coverts, into the open field. " There 
ain't no poison this time, Mr. Twentyman !" said 
the huntsman, as, setting his eye on a gap in the 
farther fence, he made his way across the field. 

The fox headed away for a couple of miles 
toward Impington, as was the custom with the 



Dillsborough foxes, and then, turning to the left, 
was soon over the country borders into Ufford. 
The pace from the first starting was very good, 
Larry, under such provocation as that, of course 
would ride, and he did ride. Up as far as the 
countiy brook, many were well up. The land 
\yas no longer deep ; and as the field had not 
been scattered at the starting, all the men who 
usually rode were fairly well placed as they came 
to the brook ; but it was acknowledged after- 
ward that Larry was over it the first. Glomax 
got into it, as he always does into brooks, and 
young Runce hurt his horse's shoulder at the 
opposite bank. Lord Rufford's horse balked it, 
to the lord's disgust ; but took it afterward, not 
losing very much ground. Tony went in and 
out, the crafty old dog knowing the one bit of 
hard ground. Then they ci'ossed Purbeck field, 
as it is still called — which twenty years since 
was a wide waste of land, but is now divided by 
new fences, very grievous to half- blown horses. 
Sir John Purefoy got a nasty fall OA'er some stiff 
timber, and here many a half-hearted rider turned ' 
to the right into the lane. Hampton, and his 
lordship, and Battersby, with Fred Botsey and 
Larry, took it all as it came, but through it all 
not one of them could give Larry a lead. Then 
there was manoeuvring into a wood and out of it 
again, and that saddest of all sights to the riding 
man, a cloud of horsemen on the road, as well 
placed as though they had ridden the line through- 
out. In getting out of the road Hampton's horse 
slipped up with him, and, though he saw it all, he 
was never able again to compete for a place. The 
fox went through the Hampton Wick coverts 
without hanging a moment, just throwing the 
hounds for two minutes off their scent at the 
gravel-pits. The check was very useful to Tony, 
who had got his second horse, and came up sput- 
tering — begging the field, for G — 's sake, to be — 
in short, to be anywhere but where they were. 
Then they were off again down the hill to the 
left, through Mappy springs and along the top of 
Ilveston copse, every yard of which is grass, till 
the number began to be select. At last, in a 
turnip-field three yards from the fence, they turn- 
ed him over, and Tony, as he jumped off his horse 
among the hounds, acknowledged to himself that 
Larry might have had his hand first upon the 
animal had he cared to do so. 

" Twentyman, I'll give you two hundred for 
your mare, " said Lord Rufford. 

"Ah, my lord, there are two things that would 
about kill me." 

• ' What are they, Larry ?" asked Harry Scrob- 
bings. 

"To offend his lordship, or to part with the 
mare." 

"You shall do neither," said Lord Rufford; 
"but, upon my word, I think she's the fastest 
thing in this county." All of which did not 
cure poor Larry, but it helped to enable him to 
be a man. 

The fox had been killed close to Norrington, 
and the run was remembered with intense grati- 
fication for many a long day after. ' ' It's that 
kind of thing that makes hunting beat every thing 
else," said Lord Rufford, as he went home. That 
day's sport certainly had been "tanti,"and Glo- 
max and the two counties boasted of it for the 
next three years. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



175 



CHAPTER LXXIV. 

BENEDICT, 

Lady Penwether declared to her husband 
that she had never seen her brother so much 
cowed as he had been by Miss Trefoil's visit to 
Rufford. It was not only that he was unable to 
assert his usual powers immediately after the at- 
tack made upon him, but that on the following 
day, at Scrobby's trial, on the Saturday when he 
started to the meet, and on the Sunday follow- 
ing, when he allowed himself to be easily per- 
suaded to go to church, he was silent, sheepish, 
and evidently afraid of himself. "It is a great 
pity that we shouldn't take the ball at the hop," 
she said to Sir George. 

" What ball? and what hop?" 
"Get him to settle himself. There ought to 
be an end to this kind of thing now. He has 
got out of this mess, but every time it becomes 
worse and worse, and he'll be taken in horribly 
by some harpy if we don't get him to marry de- 
cently. I fancy he was very nearly going in this 
last affair." Sir George, in this matter, did not 
quite agree with his wife. It was, in his opinion, 
right to avoid Miss Trefoil, but he did not see 
why his brother - in - law should be precipitated 
into matrimony with Miss Penge. According to 
his ideas in such matters, a man should be left 
alone. Therefore, as .was customary with him 
when he opposed his wife, he held his tongue. 
"You have been called in three or four times 
when he has been just on the edge of the cliff." 
"I don't know that that is any reason why he 
should be pushed over. " 

" There is not a word to be said against Caro- 
line ; she has a fine fortune of her own, and some 
of the best blood in the kingdom." 

"But if your brother does not care for her — " 
"That's nonsense, George ! As for liking, it's 
all the same to him. Rufford is good-natured, 
and easily pleased, and can like any woman. 
Caroline is very good-looking — a great deal hand- 
somer than that horrid creature ever was — and 
with manners fit for any position. I've no rea- 
son to wish to force a wife on him ; but of course 
he'll many, and unless he's guided he'll certain- 
ly marry badly." 

"Is Miss Penge in love with him?" asked Sir 
George, in a tone of voice that was intended to 
be provoking. His wife looked at him, asking 
him plainly by her countenance whether he was 
such a fool as that ? Was it likely that any un- 
titled young lady of eight-and-twenty should be 
wanting in the capacity of being in love with a 
young lord, handsome, and possessed of forty 
thousand a year without incumbrances? Sir 
George, though he did not approve, was not ea- 
ger enough in his disapproval to lay any serious 
embargo on his wife's proceedings. 

The first steps taken were in the direction of 
the hero's personal comfort. He was flattered 
and petted, as his sister knew how to flatter and 
pet him ; and Miss Penge in a quiet way assisted 
Lady Penwether in the operation. For a day or 
two he had not much to say for himself, but ev- 
ery word he did say was an oracle. His horses 
were spoken of as demi-gods, and his projected 
fishing operations for June and July became 
matters of most intense interest. Evil things 
were said of Arabella Trefoil, but in all the evil 
things said no hint was given that Lord Rufford 



had behaved badly or had been in danger. Lady 
Penwether, not quite knowing the state of his 
mind, thought that there might still be some 
lurking affection for the young lady. "Did you 
ever see anybody look so vulgar and hideous as 
she did when she marched across the park?" 
asked Lady Penwether. 

"Thank goodness, I did not see her," said 
Miss Penge. 

"I never saw her look so handsome as when 
she came up to me, " said Lord Rufford. 
"But such a thing to do!" 
" Awful !" said Miss Penge. 
"She's the pluckiest girl I overcame across 
in my life," said Lord Rufford. He knew very 
well what they were at, and was alreadj'' almost 
inclined to think that they might as well be al- 
lowed to have their way. Miss Penge was lady- 
like, quiet, and good, and was like a cool salad 
in a man's mouth after spiced meat. And the 
money would enable him to buy the Purefoy 
property, which would probably be soon in the 
market. But he felt that he might as well give 
them a little trouble before he allowed himself 
to be hooked. It certainly was not by any ar- 
rangement of his own that he found himself walk- 
ing alone with Miss Penge that Sunday afternoon 
in the park ; nor did it seem to be by hers. He 
thought of that other Sunday at Mistletoe, -when 
he had been compelled to wander with Arabella, 
when he met the duchess, and when, as he often 
told himself, a little more good-nature or a little 
more courage on her grace's part would have 
completed the work entirely. Certainly, had the 
duke come to him that night, after the journey 
from Stamford, he would have capitulated. As 
he walked along and allowed himself to be talk- 
ed to by Miss Penge, he did tell himself that she 
would be the better angel of the two. She could 
not hunt with him, as Arabella would have done ; 
but then a man does not want his Avife to gallop 
across the country after him. She might per- 
haps object to cigars and soda-water after eleven 
o'clock, but then what assurance had he that Ar- 
abella would not have objected still more loudly. 
She had sworn that she would never be opposed 
to his little pleasures; but he knew what such 
oaths were worth. Marriage altogether was a 
bore ; but having a name and a large fortune, it 
was incumbent on him to transmit them to an 
immediate descendant. And perhaps it was a 
worse bore to grow old without having specially 
bound any other human being to his interests. 
"How well I recollect that spot!" said Miss 
Penge. "It was there that Major Caneback 
took the fence." 

"That was not where he fell." 

" Oh no ; I did not see that. It would have 
haunted me forever had I done so. But it was 
there that I thought he must kill himself. That 
was a terrible time. Lord Rufford." 

"Terrible to poor Caneback, certainly." 

"Yes, and to all of us. Do you remember 
that fearful ball ? We were all so unhappy — be- 
cause you suffered so much. " 

"It was bad." 

"And that woman who persecuted you ! We 
all knew that you felt it." 

" I felt that poor man's death." 

"Yes ; and you felt the other nuisance too." 

" I remember that you told me that you would 
cling on to my legs." 



176 



THE AMEEICAN SENATOR. 



"Eleanor said so ; and wlienit was explained 
to me what clinging on to your legs meant, I re- 
member saying that I wished to be understood as 
being one to help. I love your sister so well that 
any thing which would break her heart would 
make me unhappy." 

'* You did not care for my own welfare in the 
matter ?" 

"What ought I to say, Lord RufFord, in an- 
swer to that? Of course I did care. But I 
knew that it was impossible that you should real- 
ly set your affections on such a person as Miss 
Trefoil. I told Eleanor that it would come to 
nothing. I was sure of it." 

"Why should it have come to nothing, as you 
call it ?"' 

"Because you are a gentleman, and because 
she — is not a lady. I don't know that we wom- 
en can quite understand how it is that you men 
amuse yourselves with such pei'sons." 

' ' I didn't amuse myself. " 

" I never thought you did very much. There 
was something, I suppose, in her riding, some- 
thing in her audacity, something, perhaps, in her 
vivacity ; but, througli it all, I did not think that 
you were enjoying yourself. You may be sure 
of this, Lord Ruftord, that when a woman is not 
specially liked by any other woman, she ought 
not to be specially liked by any man. I have 
never heard that Miss Trefoil had a female 
friend. " 

From day to day there were little meetings 
and conversations of this kind, till Lord Ruiford 
found himself accustomed to Miss Penge's solici- 
tude for his welfare. In all that passed between 
them the lady affected a status that was altogeth- 
er removed from that of making or receiving love. 
There had come to be a peculiar friendship, be- 
cause of Eleanor. A week of this kind of thing 
had not gone by before Miss Penge found her- 
self able to talk of and absolutely to describe this 
peculiar feeling, and could almost say how pleas- 
ant was such friendship, divested of the burden 
of all amatory possibilities. But, through it all. 
Lord Rufford knew that he would have to marry 
Miss Penge. 

It was not long before he yielded in pure wea- 
riness. Who has not felt, as he stood by a 
stream into which he knew that it was his fate 
to plunge, the folly of delaying the shock ? In 
his present condition he had no ease. His sister 
threatened him with a return of Arabella. Miss 
Penge required from him sensational conversa- 
tion. His brother-in-law was laughing at him 
in his sleeve. His very hunting friends treated 
him as though the time were come. In all that 
he did the young lady took an interest which 
bored him excessively, to put an end to which 
'i he only saw one certain way. He therefore 
asked her to be Lady Rufford before he got on 
his drag to go out hunting on the last Saturday 
in March. " Rufford," she said, looking up into 
his face with her lustrous eyes, and speaking 
with a sweet, low, silvery voice, ' ' are you sure 
of yourself?" 

"Oh yes." 

"Quite sure of yourself?" 

"Never so sure in my life." 

"Then dearest, dearest Rufford, I will not 
scruple to say that I also am sure." And so the 
thing was settled, very much to his comfort. He 
could hardly have done better bad he sought 



through all England for a bride. She will be 
true to him, and never give him cause for a mo- 
ment's jealousy. She will like his title, his 
house, and his property. She will never spend 
a shilling more than she ought to do. She will 
look very sharply after him, but will not alto- 
gether debar him from his accustomed pleasures. 
She will grace his table, nurse his children, and 
never for a moment give him cause to be ashamed 
of her. He will think that he loves her, and afh- 
er a lapse of ten or fifteen years will probably 
really be fond of her. From the moment that 
she is Lady Rufford she will love him — as she 
loves every thing that is her own. 

In spite of all his antecedents, no one doubted 
his faith in this engagement ; no one wished to 
hurry him very much. When the proposition 
had been made and accepted, and M'hon the hero 
of it had gone off on his drag. Miss Penge com- 
municated the tidings to her friend. "I think 
he has behaved very wisely," said Lady Pen- 
wether. 

" Well — feeling as I do — of course I think he 
has. I hope he thinks the same of me. I had 
many doubts about it, but I do beheve that I can 
make him a good wife." Lady Penwether 
thought that her friend was hardly sufficiently 
thankful, and strove to tell her so in her own 
gentle, friendly way. But Miss Penge held her 
head up, and was very stout, and would not ac- 
knowledge any cause for gratitude. Lady Pen- 
wether, when she saw how it was to be, gave way 
a little. Close friendship with her future sister- 
in-law would be veiy necessary to her comfort, 
and Miss Penge, since the lawsuit was settled, 
had never been given to yielding. 

"My dear Rufford," said the sister, affection- 
ately, "I congratulate you with all my heart; I 
do, indeed. I am quite sure that you could not 
have done better." 

"I don't know that I could." 

" She is a gem of inestimable price, and most 
warmly attached to you. And if this property 
is to be bought, of course the money will be a 
great thing." 

"Money is always comfortable." 

" Of course it is ; and then there is nothing to 
be desired. If I had named the girl that I would 
have wished you to love, it would have been Car- 
oline Penge." She need hardly have said this, 
as she had, in fact, been naming the girl for the 
last three or four months. The news was soon 
spread about the country and the fashionable 
world ; and every body was pleased except the 
Trefoil familv. 



CHAPTER LXXV. 

Arabella's success. 

When Arabella Trefoil got back to Portugal 
Street, after her visit to Rufford, she was ill. 
The effort she had made, the unaccustomed la- 
bor, and the necessity of holding herself aloft be- 
fore the man who had rejected her, were togeth- 
er more than her strength could bear, and she 
was taken up to bed in a fainting condition. It 
was not till the next morning that she was able 
even to open the letter which contained the news 
of John Morton's legacy. When she had read 
the letter and realized the contents, she took to 
weeping in a fashion very unlike her usual hab- 



THE AMERICAN SENATOE, 



177 



its. She was still in bed, and there she remain- 
ed for two or three days, during which she had 
time to think of her past life, and to think also a 
little of the future. Old Mrs. Green came to her 
once or twice a day, but she was necessarily left 
to the nursing of her own maid. Every even- 
ing Mounser Green called and sent up tender in- 
quiries ; but in all this there was very little to 
comfort her. There she lay with the letter in 
her hand, thinking that the only man who had 
endeavored to be of service to her was he whom 
she had treated with unexampled perfidy. Oth- 
er men had petted her, had amused themselves 
with her, and then thrown her over, had lied to 
her and laughed at her, till she had been taught 
to think that a man was a heartless, cruel, slip- 
pery animal — made, indeed, to be caught occa- 
sionally, but in the catching of which infinite 
skill was wanted, and in which infinite skill 
might be thrown away. But this man had been 
true to her to the last, in spite of her treacliery ! 

She knew that she was heartless herself, and 
that she belonged to a heartless world ; but she 
knew also that there was a world of women who 
were not heartless. Such women had looked 
down upon her as from a great height, but she 
in return had been able to ridicule them. They 
had chosen their part, and she bad chosen hers, 
and had thought that she might climb to the 
glorj' of wealth and rank, while they would have 
to marry hard-working clergymen and briefless 
barristers. She had often been called upon to 
vindicate to herself the part she had chosen, and 
had always done so by magnifying in her own 
mind the sin of the men with whom she had to 
deal. At this moment she thought that Lord 
Rutford had treated her villainously; whereas 
her conduct to him had been only that which the 
necessity of the case required. To Lord EufFord 
she had simply behaved after the manner of her 
class — heartless, of course, but only in the way 
which the "custom of the trade "justified. Each 
had tried to circumvent the other, and she, as 
the weaker, had gone to the wall. But John 
Morton had believed in her and loved her. Oh, 
how she wished that she had deserted her class 
and clung to him, even though she should now 
have been his widow! The legacy was a bur- 
den to her. Even she had conscience enough to 
be sorry for a day or two that he had named her 
in his will. 

And what would she do with herself for the 
future ? Her quarrel with her mother had been 
very serious, each swearing that under no cir- 
cumstances would she again consent to live with 
the other. The daughter, of course, knew that 
the mother would receive her again should she 
ask to be received. But in such case she must 
go back with shortened pinions and blunted beak. 
Her sojourn with Mrs. Green was to last for one 
month, and at the end of that time she must seek 
for a home. If she put John Morton's legacy 
out to interest she would now be mistress of a 
small income; but she understood money well 
enough to know to what obduracy of poverty 
she would thus be subjected. As she looked the 
matter closer in the face the horrors became 
more startling and more manifest. Who would 
have her in their houses? Where should she 
find society — where the possibility of lovers? 
What would be her life, and what her prospects ? 
Must she give up forever the game for which she 
12 



had lived, and own that she had been conquered 
in the fight and beaten even to death ? Then she 
thought over the long list of her past lovers, try- 
ing to see whether there might be one of the 
least desirable at whom she might again cast her 
javelins. But there was not one. 

The tender messages from Mounser Green 
came to her day by day. Mounser Green, as 
the nephew of her hostess, had been very kind 
to her ; but hitherto he had never appeared to 
her in the light of a possible lover. He was a 
clerk in the Foreign OflSce, waiting for his aunt's 
money; a man whom she had met in society, 
and whom she knew to be well thought of by 
those above him in wealth and rank; but she 
had never regarded him as prey, or as a man 
whom any girl would want to maiTy. He was 
one of those of the other sex who would most 
pi'obably look out for prey — who, if he manied 
at all, would marry an heiress. She, in her 
time, had been on good terms with many such 
^a one — had counted them among her intimate 
friends, had made use of them and been useful 
to them — but she had never dreamed of marry- 
ing any one of them. They were there in society 
for altogether a different purpose. She had not 
hesitated to talk to Mounser Green about Lord 
EufFord ; and though she had pretended to make 
a secret of the place to which she was going 
when he had taken her to the railway, she had 
not at all objected to his undei'standing her pur- 
pose. Up to that moment there had certainly 
been no thought on her part of transferring what 
she was wont to call her affections to Mounser 
Green as a suitor. 

But as she lay in bed, thinking of her future 
life, tidings were brought to her by Mrs. Green 
that Mounser had accepted the mission to Pata- 
gonia. Could it be that her destiny intended 
her to go out to Patagonia as the wife, if not of 
one minister, then of another ? There would be 
a career — a way of living, if not exactly that 
which she would have chosen. Of Patagonia as 
a place of residence she had already formed 
ideas. In some of those moments in which she 
had foreseen that Lord Rufford would be lost 
to her, she had told hei'self that it would be 
better to reign in hell than serve in heaven. 
Among Patagonian women she would probably 
be the first. Among English ladies it did not 
seem that at present she had prospect of a high 
place. It would be long before Lord Rufford 
would be forgotten, and she had not space enough 
before her for forgettings which would require 
time for their accomplishment. Mounser Green 
had declared with energy that Lord Rufford had 
behaved very badly. There are men who feel it 
to be their mission to come in for the relief of 
Ladies who have been badly treated. If Mounser 
Green wished to be one of them on her behalf, 
and to take her out with him to his very fiir- 
away employment, might not this be the best 
possible solution of her present difiiculties ? 

On the evening of the third day after her re- 
turn she was able to come down-stairs, and the 
line of thought which has been suggested for her 
induced her to undertake some trouble with the 
white and pink robe or dressing-gown in which 
she had appeared. "Well, my dear, you are 
smart," the old lady said. 

" 'Odious ! in woolen 1 'twould a saint provoke, 
Were the last worda that poor Narcissa spoke,' " 



178 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



said Arabella, who had long since provided her- 
self with this quotation for such occasions. "I 
hope I am not exactly dying, Mrs. Green ; but I 
don't see why I should not object to be ' fright- 
ful,' as well as the young lady who was." 

"I suppose it's all done for Mounser's bene- 
fit?" 

"Partly for you, partly for Mounser, and a 
good deal for myself. What a very odd name ! 
Why did they call him Mounser? I used to 
think it was because he was in the Foreign Of- 
fice — a kind of chaflp, as being half a Frenchman." 

"My mother's maiden name was Mounser, 
and it isn't Frencli at all. I don't see why it 
should not be as good a Christian name as Wil- 
loughby or Howard." 

" Quite as good, and much more distinctive. 
There can't be another Mounser Green in the 
world. " 

"And very few other young men like him. 
At my time of life I find it very hard his going 
away. And what will he do in such a place as 
that — all alone and without a wife ?" 

"Why don't you make him take a wife?" 

" There isn't time now. He'll have to start 
in May." 

' ' Plenty of time. Trousseaux are now got up 
by steam, and girls are kept ready to marry at 
the shortest notice. If I were you, I should cer- 
tainly advise him to take out some healthy young 
woman, capable of bearing the inclemencies of 
the Patagonian climate. " 

"As for that, the climate is delicious," said 
Mrs. Green, who certainly was not led by her 
guest's manner to suspect the nature of her 
guest's more recent intentions. 

Mounser Green on this afternoon came to 
Portugal Street before he himself went out to 
dinner, choosing the hour at which his aunt was 
wont to adorn herself. "And so you are to be 
the hero of Patagonia ?" said Arabella, as she 
put out her hand to congratulate him on his ap- 
pointment. 

"1 don't know about heroism, but it seems 
that I am to go there," said Mounser, with much 
melancholy in his voice. 

"I should have thought you were the last 
man to leave London willingly." 

" Well, yes ; I should have said so myself. 
And I do flatter myself I shall be missed. But 
what had I before me here ? This may lead to 
something." 

"Indeed you will be missed, Mr. Green." 

"It's very kind of you to say so." 

"Patagonia! It is such a long way off!" 
Then she began to consider whether he had ever 
heard of her engagement with the last minister- 
elect to that country. That he should know all 
about Lord Ruiford was a matter of course ; but 
what chance could there be for her if he also 
knew of that other affair ? ' ' We were intimately 
acquainted with Mr. Morton in Washington, and 
were surprised that he should have accepted it." 

"Poor Morton! He was a friend of mine. 
We used to call him the Paragon, because he 
never made mistakes. I had heard that you and 
Lady Augusta were a good deal with liim in 
Washington." 

" We were, indeed. You do not know my 
good news as yet, I suppose. Your Paragon, as 
you call him, has left me five thousand pounds." 
Of course it would be necessary that he should 



know it some day if this new plan of hers were 
to be carried out ; and if the plan should fail, 
his knowing it could do no harm. 

" How very nice for you ! Poor Morton !" 

" It is well that somebody should behave well, 
when others treat one so badly, Mr. Green. Yes ; 
he has left me five thousand pounds." Then she 
showed him the lawyer's letter. "Perhaps, as 
I am so separated at present from all my own 
people by this affair with Lord Ruffbrd, you 
would not mind seeing the man for me." Of 
course he promised to see the lawyer and to do 
every thing that was necessary. " The truth is, 
Mr. Green, Mr. Morton was very warmly attach- 
ed to me. I was a foolish girl, and could not 
return it. I thought of it long, and was then 
obliged to tell him that I could not entertain just 
that sort of feeling for him. You can not think 
now how bitter is my regret that I should have 
allowed myself to trust a man so false and treach- 
erous as Lord Rufford, and that I should have 
^perhaps added a pang to the death-bed of one so 
good as Mr. Morton. " And so she told her lit- 
tle story — not caring very much whether it were 
believed or not, but finding it to be absolutely 
essential that some story should be told. 

During the next day or two Mounser Green 
thought a great deal about it. That the story 
was not exactly true, he knew very well. But 
it is not to be expected that a girl before her 
marriage should be exactly true about her old 
loves. That she had been engaged to Lord Ruf- 
ford and had been cruelly jilted by him, he did 
believe. That she had at one time been engaged 
to the Paragon, he was almost sure. The fact 
that the Paragon had left her money was a strong 
argument that she had not behaved badly to 
him. But there was much that was quite cer- 
tain. The five thousand pounds were quite cer- 
tain ; and the money, though it could not be 
called a large fortune for a j'oung lady, would 
pay his debts and send him out a free man to 
Patagonia. And the family honors were cer- 
tainly true. She was the undoubted niece of the 
Duke of Mayfair, and such a connection might 
in his career be of service to him. Lord Mistle- 
toe was a prig, but would probably be a member 
of the Government. Mounser Green liked dukes, 
and loved a duchess in his heart of hearts. If 
he could only be assured that this niece would 
not be repudiated, he thought that the specula- 
tion might answer in spite of any ambiguity in 
the lady's antecedents. 

" Have you heard about Arabella's good fort- 
une?" young Glossop asked the next morning at 
the office. 

"You forget, my boy," said Mounser Green, 
' ' that the young lady of whom you speak is a 
friend of mine." 

" O lord, so I did! I beg your pardon, old 
fellow." There was no one else in the room at 
the moment, and Glossop, in asking the ques- 
tion, had in truth forgotten what he had heard 
of this new intimacy. 

"Don't you learn to be ill-natured, Glossop. 
And remember that there is no form so bad as 
that of calling young ladies by their Christian 
names, I do know that poor Morton has left 
Miss Trefoil a sum of money, which is at any 
rate evidence that he thought well of her to the 
last." 

" Of course it is. I didn't mean to offend you. 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



179 



I wouldn't do it for worlds — as you are going 
away." That afternoon, when Green's back was 
turned, GIossop gave it as his opinion that some- 
thing particular would turn up between Moun- 
ser and Miss Trefoil, an opinion which brought 
down much ridicule upon him from both Hoff- 
mann and Archibald Currie. But before that 
week was over — in the early days of April — they 
were forced to retract their opinion and to do 
honor to young Glossop's sagacity. Mounser 
Green was engaged to Miss Trefoil, and for a 
day or two the Foreign Office could tallc of noth- 
ing else. 

"A veiy handsome girl," said Lord Drum- 
mond to one of his subordinates. "I met her 
at Mistletoe. As to that aff^air with Lord Ruf- 
ford, he treated her abominably." And when 
Mounser showed himself at the office, which he 
did boldly, immediately after the engagement was 
made known, they all received him with open 
arms, and congratulated him sincerely on his hap- 
py fortune. He himself was quite contented 
with what he had done, and thought that he was 
taking out for himself the very wife for Patagonia. 



CHAPTER LXXVL 



THE WEDDING. 



No sooner did the new two lovers, Mounser 
Green and Arabella Trefoil, understand each 
other, than they set their wits to work to make 
the best of their natural advantages. The latter 
communicated the fact in a very dry manner to 
her father and mother. Nothing was to be got 
from them, and it was only just necessary that 
they should know what she intended to do with 
herself. "My dear mamma, — I am to be married 
some time early in May to Mr. Mounser Green, 
of the Foreign Office. I don't think you know 
him, but I dare say you have heard of him. He 
goes to Patagonia immediately after the wed- 
ding, and I shall go with him. Your affection- 
ate daughter — Arabella Trefoil." That was all 
she said, and the letter to her father was word 
for word the same. But how to make use of 
those friends who were more happily circum- 
stanced was matter for frequent counsel between 
her and Mr. Green. In these days I do not 
think that she concealed very much from^ him. 
To tell him all the little details of her adventures 
with Lord Ruffbrd would have been neither use- 
ful nor pleasant ; but, as to the chief facts, ret- 
icence would have been foolish. To the state- 
ment that Lord Ruffbrd had absolutely proposed 
to her she clung fast, and really did believe it 
herself. That she bad been engaged to John 
Morton she did not deny; but she threw the 
blame of that matter on her mother, and explain- 
ed to him that she had broken oft' the engage- 
ment down at Bragton because she could not 
bring herself to regard the man with sufficient 
personal favor. Mounser was satisfied, but was 
very strong in urging her to seek, yet once again, 
the favor of her magnificent uncle and her mag- 
nificent aunt. 

"What good can they do»us?" said Arabella, 
who was almost afraid to make the appeal. 

"It would be every thing for you to be mar- 
ried from Mistletoe," he said. "People would 
know then that you were not blamed about Lord 



Rufford. And it might i-ve me very much in 
my profession. These things do help very much. 
It would cost us nothing, and the proper kind of 
notice would then get into the newspape,rs. If 
you will write direct to the duchess, I will get at 
the duke through Lord Drummond. They know 
where we are going, and that we are not likely 
to want any thing else for a long time." 

"I don't think the duchess would have mam- 
ma, if it were ever so. " 

"Then we must drop your mother for the 
time — that's all. When my aunt hears that you 
are to be married from the duke's, she will be 
quite willing that you should remain with her 
till you go down to Mistletoe." 

Arabella, who perhaps knew a little more than 
her lover, could not bring herself to believe that 
the appeal would be successful, but she made it. 
It was a very difficult letter to write, as she could 
not but allude to the rapid transference of her 
affections. "I will not conceal from you," she 
said, " that I have suffered very much from Lord 
RufFord's heartless conduct. My misery has been 
aggravated by the feeling that you and my uncle 
will hardly believe him to be so false, and will 
attribute part of the blame to me. I had to un- 
dergo an agonizing revulsion of feeling, during 
which Mr. Green's behavior to me was at first so 
considerate and then so kind that it has gone far 
to cure the wound from which I have been suf- 
fering. He is so well known in reference to for- 
eign affairs that I think my uncle can not but 
have heard of him ; my cousin Mistletoe is cer- 
tainly acquainted with him ; and I think that 
you can not but approve of the match. You 
know what is the position of my father and my 
mother, and how little able they are to give us 
any assistance. If you would be kind enough to 
let us be married from Mistletoe, you will confer 
on both of us a very, very great favor. " There 
was more of it, but that was the first of the 
prayer, and most of the words given above came 
from the dictation of Mounser himself. She 
had pleaded against making the direct request, 
but he had assured her that in the world, as at 
present arranged, the best way to get a thing is 
to ask for it. "You make yourself, at any rate, 
understood," he said, "and you may be sure 
that people who receive petitions do not feel the 
hardihood of them so much as they who make 
them. " Arabella, comforting herself by declar- 
ing that the duchess at any rate could not eat 
her, wi'ote the letter and sent it. 

The duchess at first was most serious in her 
intention to refuse. She was indeed made very 
angry by the request. Though it had been 
agreed at Mistletoe that Lord Rufford had be- 
haved badly, the duchess was thoroughly well 
aware that Arabella's conduct had been abomi- 
nable. Lord Rufford probably had made an of- 
fer, but it had been extracted from him by the 
vilest of manceuvres. The girl had been person- 
ally insolent to herself. And this rapid change, 
this third engagement within a few weeks, was 
disgusting to her as a woman. But, unluckily 
for herself, she would not answer the letter tiil* 
she had consulted her husband. As it happen- 
ed, the duke was in town, and while he was there 
Lord Drummond got hold of him. Lord Drum- 
mond had spoken very highly of Mounser Green, 
and the duke, who was never dead to the feeling 
that as the head of the family he should always 



180 



THE AMERICAN SENATOE. 



do what he could for the junior branches, had 
almost made a promise. "I never take such 
things upon myself," he said, "but if the duch- 
ess has -no objection, we will have them down to 
Mistletoe." 

" Of course, if you wish it," said the duchess, 
■u-ith more acerbity in her tone than the duke 
had often heard there. 

"Wish it? "What do you mean by wishing 
it ? It will be a great bore." 

"Terrible!" 

"But she is the only one there is, and then 
we shall have done with it." 

" Done with it ! Tiiey will be back from Pat- 
agonia before you can turn yourself, and then of 
course we must have them here." 

"Drummond tells me that Mr. Green is one 
of the most useful men they have at the Foreign 
Office — just the man that one ought to give a lift 
to." Of course the duke had his way. The 
duchess could not bring herself to write the let- 
ter, but the duke wrote to his dear niece saying 
that "they" would be very glad to see her, and 
that if she would name the day proposed for the 
wedding, one should be fixed for her visit to 
Mistletoe. 

"You had better tell your mother and your 
father," Mounser said to her. 

"What's the use? The duchess hates my 
mother, and my father never goes near the 
place. " 

' ' Nevertheless tell them. People care a great 
deal for appearances." She did as she was bid, 
and the result was that Lord Augustus and his 
wife, on the occasion of their daughter's mar- 
riage, met each other at Mistletoe — for the first 
time for the last dozen years. 

Before the day came round Arabella was quite 
astonished to find how popular and fashionable 
her wedding was likely to be, and how the world 
at large approved of what she was doing. The 
newspapers had paragraphs about alliances and 
noble families, and all the relatives sent trib- 
ute. There was a gold candlestick from the 
duke, a gilt dish from the duchess — which came, 
however, without a word of personal congratula- 
tion — and a gorgeous set of scent-bottles from 
Cousin Mistletoe. The Connop Greens were 
lavish with sapphires, the De Brownes with 
pearls, and the Smijths with opal. Mrs. Gore 
sent a huge carbuncle, which Arabella strongly 
suspected to be glass. From her paternal parent 
there came a pair of silver nut-crackers, and from 
the maternal a second-hand dressing-case newly 
done up. Old Mrs. Green gave her a couple of 
ornamental butter-boats, and salt-cellars innumer- 
able came from distant Gi-eens. But there was 
a diamond ring — with a single stone — from a 
friend, without a name, which she believed to be 
worth all the rest in money value. Should she 
send it back to Lord Rulford, or make a gulp 
and swallow it ? How invincible must be the 
good-nature of the man when he could send her 
such a present after such a rating as she had 
given him in the park at RufFord! "Do as you 
like," Mounser Green said when she consulted 
him. 

She very much wished to keep it. "But what 
am I to say, and to whom ?" 

' ' Write a note to the jeweler saying that you 
have got it." She did write to the jeweler say- 
ing that she had got the ring — ' ' from a friend ; " 



and the ring, with the other tribute, went to 
Patagonia. He had certainly behaved very bad- 
ly to her, but she was quite sure that he would 
never tell the story of the ring to any one. Per- 
haps she thought that as she had spared him in 
the great matter of eight thousand pounds, she 
was entitled to take this smaller contribution. 

It was late in April when she went down to 
Mistletoe, the marriage having been fixed for the 
3d of May. After that they were to spend a 
fortnight in Paris, and leave England for Pata- 
gonia at the end of the month. The only thing 
^vhich Arabella dreaded was the meeting with 
the duchess. When that was once over, she 
thought that she could bear with equanimity all 
that could come after. The week before her 
marriage could not be a pleasant week, but then 
she had been accustomed to endure evil hours. 
Her uncle would be blandly good-natured. Mis- 
tletoe, should he be there, would make civil 
speeches to compensate for his indifference when 
called upon to attack Lord Rufford. Other guests 
would tender to her the caressing observance al- 
ways shown to a bride. But as she got out of 
the ducal carriage at the fi-ont door, her heart 
was uneasy at the coming meeting. 

The duchess herself almost went to bed when 
the time came, so much did she dread the same 
thing. She was quite alone, having felt that she 
could not bring herself to give the affectionate 
embrace which the presence of others would re- 
quire. She stood in the middle of the room, and 
then came forward three steps to meet the bride. 
"Arabella," she said, "I am very glad that 
every thing has been settled so comfortably for 
you." 

"That is so kind of you, aunt," said Arabella, 
who was watching the duchess closely, ready to 
jump into her aunt's arms if required to do so, 
or to stand quite aloof. 

Then the duchess signified her pleasure that 
her cheek should be touched, and it was touch- 
ed. " Mrs. Pepper will show you your room. 
It is the same you had when you were here be- 
fore. Perhaps you know that Mr. Green comes 
down to Stamford on the 1st, and that he will 
dine here on that day and on Sunday. " 

"That will be very nice. He had told me how 
it was arranged." 

"It seems that he knows one of the clerg)'Tnen 
in Stamford, and will stay at his house. Per- 
haps you will like to go upstairs now." 

That was all there was, and that had not been 
very bad. During the entire week tlie duchess 
hardly spoke to her another word, and certainly 
did not speak to her a word in private. Ara- 
bella now could go where she pleased without 
any danger of meeting her aunt on her walks. 
When Sunday came, nobody asked her to go to 
church. She did go twice, Mounser Green ac- 
companying her to the morning service; but 
there was no i-estraint. The duchess only 
thought of her as a disagreeable, ill-conducted 
incubus, who luckily was about to be taken away 
to Patagonia. 

It had been settled on all sides that the mar- 
riage was to be very quiet. The bride was of 
course consulted about her bridesmaids, as to 
whom there was a little difficulty. But a distant 
Trefoil was found willing to act, in payment for 
the unaccustomed invitation to Mistletoe, and 
one Connop Greeu young lady, Avith one De 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



18T 



Browne young lady, and one Smijth young lady, 
came on the same terms. Arabella herself was 
surprised at the ease with which it was all done. 
On the Saturday Lady Augustus came, and on 
the Sunday Lord Augustus. The parents of 
course kissed their child, but there was very lit- 
tle said in the way either of congratulation or 
farewell. Lord Augustus did have some con- 
versation with Mounser Green, but it all turned 
on the probability of there being whist in Pata- 
gonia. On the Monday morning they were mar- 
ried, and then Arabella was taken off by the hap- 
py bridegroom. 

When the ceremony was over, it was expected 
that Lady Augustas should take herself away as 
quickly as possible — not perhaps on that very 
afteraoon, but, at any rate, on the next morning. 
As soon as the carriage was gone, she went to 
her own room and wept bitterly. It was all 
done now. Every thing was over. Though she 
had quarreled daily with her daughter for the 
last twelve years — to such an extent lately that 
no decently civil word ever passed between them 
— still, there had been something to interest her. 
There had been something to fear and something 
to hope. The girl had always had some pros- 
pect before her, more or less brilliant. Her life 
had had its occupation, and futui-e triumph was 
possible. Now it was all over. The link by 
which she had been bound to the world was 
broken. The Connop Greens and the Smijths 
would no longer have her, unless it might be 
on short and special occasions, as a great favor. 
She knew that she was an old woman, without 
money, without blood, and without attraction, 
whom nobody would ever again desire to see. 
She had her things packed up, and herself taken 
off to London, almost without a word of farewell 
to the duchess, telling herself as she went that 
tlie world had produced no other people so heart- 
less as the family of the Trefoils. 

"I wonder what you will think of Patago- 
nia," said .Mounser Green, as he took his bride 
away. 

" I don't suppose I shall think much. As far 
as I can see, one place is always like another." 

"But then you will have duties." 

"Not veiy heavy, I hope." 

Then he preached her a sermon, expressing a 
hope, as he went on, that as she was leaving the 
pleasures of life behind her, she would learn to 
like the work of life. "I have found the pleas- 
ures very hard," she said. He spoke to her of 
the companion he hoped to find, of the possible 
children who might be dependent on their moth- 
ei', of the position which she would hold, and of 
the manner in which she should fill it. She, as 
she listened to him, was almost stunned by the 
change in the world around her. She need nev- 
er again seem to be gay in order that men might 
be attracted. She made her promises, and made 
them with an intention of keeping them; but it 
may, we fear, be doubted whether he was justi- 
fied in expecting that he could get a wife fit for 
his purpose out of the school in which Arabella 
Trefoil had been educated. The two, however, 
will pass out of our sight, and we can only hope 
that he may not be disappointed. 



CHAPTER LXXVIL 

THE SENATOK's LECTURE. — NO. I. 

Wednesdat, April 14th, was the day at last 
fixed for the Senator's lecture. His little pro- 
posal to set England right on all those matters in 
which she had hitherto gone astray had created 
a considerable amount of attention. The Goar- 
ly affair, with the subsequent trial of Scrobby, 
had been much talked about, and the Senator's 
doings in reference to it had been made matter 
of comment in the newspapers. Some had 
praised him for courage, benevolence, and a 
steadfast purpose. Others had ridiculed his in- 
ability to understand manners different from 
those of his own country. He had seen a good 
deal of society both in London and in the coun- 
try, and had never hesitated to express his opin- 
ions with an audacity which some had called in- 
solence. When he had trodden with his whole 
weight hard down on individual corns, of course 
he had given offense — as on the memorable oc- 
casion of the dinner at the parson's house in 
Dillsborough. But, on the whole, he had pro- 
duced for himself a general respect among edu- 
cated men, which was not diminished by the fact 
that he seemed to count quite as little on that as 
on the ill-will and abuse of others. For some 
daj's previous to the delivery of the lecture the 
hoardings in London were crowded with sesqui- 
pedalian notices of the entertainment, so that 
Senator Gotobed's great oration on " The Ir- 
rationality of Englishmen " was looked to with 
considerable interest. 

When an intelligent Japanese travels in Great 
Britain or an intelligent Briton in Japan, he is 
struck with no wonder at national differences. 
He is, on the other hand, rather startled to find 
how like his strange brother is to him in many 
things. Crime is persecuted, wickedness is con- 
doned, and goodness treated with indifference, in 
both countries. Men care more for what they 
eat than any thing else, and combine a closely 
defined idea of vieum with a lax perception as 
to tuum. Barring a little difference of complex- 
ion and feature, the Englishman would make a 
good Japanese, or the Japanese a first-class En- 
glishman. But when an American comes to us, 
or a Briton goes to the States, each speaking the 
same language, using the same cookery, govern- 
ed by the same laws, and wearing the same cos- 
tume, the differences which present themselves 
are so striking that neither can live six months 
in the country of the other without a holding-up 
of the hands and a torrent of exclamations. And 
in nineteen cases out of twenty the surprise and 
the ejaculations take the place of censure. The 
intelligence of the American, displayed through 
the nose, worries the Englishman. The uncon- 
scious self-assurance of the Englishman, not al- 
ways unaccompanied by a sneer, irritates the 
American. They meet as might a lad from Har- 
row and another from Mr. Brumby's successful 
mechanical cramming establishment. The Har- 
row boy can not answer a question, but is sure 
that he is the proper thing, and is ready to face 
the world on that assurance. Mr. Brumby's par- 
agon is shocked at the other's inaptitude for ex- 
amination, but is at the same time tortured by 
envy of he knows not what. In this spirit we 
Americans and Englishmen go on writing books 
about each other, sometimes with bitterness 



]82 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



enough, but generally with good final results. 
But in the mean time there has sprung up a 
jealousy which makes each inclined to hate the 
other at first sight. Hate is difficult and expen- 
sive, and between individuals soon gives place to 
love. "I can not bear Americans, as a rule, 
though I have been very lucky myself with a few 
friends. " Who in England has not heard that 
form of speech, over and over again ? And what 
Englishman has traveled in the States without 
hearing abuse of all English institutions uttered 
amidst the pauses of a free-lianded hospitality 
which has left him nothing to desire ? 

Mr. Senator Gotobed had expressed his mind 
openly wheresoever he went ; but, being a man 
of immense energy, was not content with such 
private utterances. He could not libei'ate his 
soul without doing something in public to con- 
vince his cousins that in their general practices 
of life they were not guided by reason. He had 
no object of making money. To give him his 
due, we must own that he had no object of mak- 
ing fame. He was impelled by that intense 
desire to express himself which often amounts 
to passion with us, and sometimes to fury with 
Americans, and he hardly considered much what 
reception his words might receive. It was only 
when he was told by others that his lecture 
might give offense which possibly would turn to 
violence, that he made inquiry as to tlie attend- 
ance of the police. But though they should tear 
him to pieces, he would say what he had to say. 
It should not be his fault if the absurdities of a 
people whom he really loved were not exposed to 
light, so that they might be acknowledged and 
abandoned. 

He had found time to travel to Birmingham, 
to Ma'nchester, to Liverpool, to Glasgow, and to 
other places, and really thought that he had mas- 
tered his great subject. He had worked very 
hard, but was probably premature in thinking 
that he knew England thoi'oughly. He had, 
however, undoubtedly dipped into a great many 
matters, and could probably have told many 
Englishmen much that they didn't know about 
their own affairs. He had poked his nose ev- 
erywhere, and had scrupled to ask no question. 
He had seen the miseries of a casual ward, the 
despair of an expiring strike, the amenities of a 
city slum, and the stolid apathy of a rural labor- 
er's home. He had measured the animal food 
consumed by the working-classes, and knew the 
exact amount of alcohol swallowed by the aver- 
age Briton. He had seen also the luxury of 
baronial halls, the pearl-drinking extravagances 
of commercial palaces, the unending labors of our 
pleasure -seekers, as with Lord RufFord, and the 
dullness of ordinary country life, as experienced 
by himself at Bragton ; and now he was going 
to tell the English people at large what he 
thought about it all. 

The great room at St. James's Hall had been 
secured for the occasion, and Lord Drummond, 
the Minister of State in Foreign Affairs, had 
been induced to take the chair. In these days 
our governments are very anxious to be civil to 
foreigners, and there is nothing that a robust 
Secretary of State will not do for them. On 
the platform there were many members of both 
Houses of Parliament, and almost every body 
connected with the Foreign Office. Every tick- 
et had been taken for weeks since. The front 



benches were filled with the wives and daugh- 
ters of those on the platform, and back behind, 
into the distant spaces in which seeing was dif- 
ficult and hearing impossible, the crowd was 
gathered at two shillings and sixpence a head ; 
all of which was going to some great British 
charity. Erom half-past seven to eight Piccadil- 
ly and Regent Street were crammed, and when 
the Senator came himself with his chairman he 
could hardly make his way in at the doors. A 
great treat was expected, but there were among 
the officers of police some who thought that a 
portion of the audience would not bear quietly 
the hard things that would be said, and that 
there was an uncanny gathering of roughs about 
the street, who were not prepared to be on their 
best behavior when they should be told that old 
England was being abused. 

Lord Drummond opened the proceedings by 
telling the audience, in a voice clearly audible to 
the reporters and the first half-dozen benches, 
that they had come there to hear what a well-in- 
formed and distinguished foreigner thought of 
their country. They would not, he was sure, ex- 
pect to be flattered : than flattery nothing was 
more useless or ignoble. This gentleman, com- 
ing from a new country, in which tradition was 
of no avail, and on which the customs of for- 
mer centuries had had no opportunities to ingraft 
themselves, had seen many things here which, in 
his eyes, could not justify themselves by reason. 
Lord Drummond was a little too prolix for a 
chairman, and at last concluded by expressing 
"his conviction that his countrymen would list- 
en to the distinguished Senator with that court- 
esy which was due to a foreigner, and due also 
to the great and brotherly nation from which he 
had come." 

Then the Senator rose, and the clapping of 
hands and kicking of heels were most satisfac- 
toiy. There was, at any rate, no prejudice at 
the onset. "English Ladies and Gentlemen," 
he said, "I am in the unenviable position of 
having to say hard things to you for about an 
hour and a half together, if I do not drive you 
from your seats before my lecture is done. And 
this is the more the pity because I could talk to 
you for three hours about your country and not 
say an unpleasant word. His lordship has told 
you that flattery is not my purpose. Neither is 
praise, which would not be flattery. Why should 
I collect three or four thousand people here to 
tell them of virtues the consciousness of which 
is the inheritance of each of them ? You are 
brave and generous, and you are lovely to look 
at, with sweetly polished manners ; but you know 
all that quite well enough without my telling you. 
But it strikes me that you do not know how lit- 
tle prone you are to admit the light of reason 
into either your public or private life, and how 
generally you allow yourselves to be guided by 
traditions, prejudices, and customs which should 
be obsolete. If you will consent to listen to 
what one foreigner thinks — though he himself 
be a man of no account — you may perclinnce 
gather from his words something of the opinion 
of by-standers in general, and so be able, perliaps 
a little, to rectify your gait and your costume 
and the tones of your voice, as we are all apt to 
do when we come from our private homes, out 
among the eyes of the public." 

This was received very well. The Senator 



THE AMERICAN SENATOK. 



183 



spoke with a clear, sonorous voice' — no doubt, 
with a twang, but so audibly as to satisfy the 
room in general. " I shall not," he said, "dwell 
much on your form of government. Were I to 
praise a republic, I might seem to belittle your 
throne and the lady who sits on it — an offense 
which would not be endured for a moment by 
English ears. I will take the monarchy as it 
is, simply remarking that its recondite forms are 
veiy hard to be understood by foreigners, and 
that they seem to me to be for the most part 
equally dark to natives. I have hardly, as yet, 
met two Englishmen who were agreed as to the 
political power of the sovereign ; and most of 
those of whom I have inquired have assured me 
that the matter is one as to which they have not 
found it worth their while to make inquiry." 
Here a voice from the end of the hall made some 
protestation, but the nature of the protest did 
not reach the platform. 

" But," continued the Senator, now rising into 
energy, ' ' though I will not meddle with your 
form of government, I may, I hope, be allowed 
to allude to the political agents by which it is 
conducted. You are proud of your Parliament." 

"We are," said a voice. 

"I wonder of which house. I do not ask the 
question that it may be answered, because it is 
advisable at the present moment that there should 
be only one speaker. That labor is, unfortunate- 
ly for me, at present in my hands, and I am sure 
you will agree with me that it should not be di- 
vided. You mean, probably, that you are proud 
of yonr House of Commons, and that you are so 
because it speaks with the voice of the people. 
The voice of the people, in order that it may be 
heard without unjust preponderance on this side 
or on that, requires much manipulation. That 
manipulation has in latter years been effected by 
your Reform bills, of which during the last half- 
century there have, in fact, been four or five — 
the latter, in favor of the ballot, having been per- 
haps the greatest. There have been bills for 
purity of elections — very necessary — bills for cre- 
ating constituencies, bills for abolishing them, 
bills for dividing them, bills for extending the 
suffrage, and bills, if I am not mistaken, for cur- 
tailing it. And what has been the result ? How 
many men are there in this room who know the 
respective nature of their votes ? And is there a 
single woman who knows the political worth of 
her husband's vote ? Passing the other day from 
the Bank of this great metropolis to its suburb 
called Brentford, journeying, as I did, the whole 
way through continuous rows of houses, I found 
myself at first in a very ancient borough return- 
ing four members — double the usual number — 
not because of its population, but because it has 
always been so. Here I was informed that the 
residents had little or nothing to do with it. I 
was told, though I did not quite believe what I 
heard, that there were no residents. The voters, 
however — at any i-ate the influential voters — nev- 
er pass a night there, and combine their city 
franchise with franchises elsewhere. I then went 
through two enormous boroughs, one so old as to 
have a great political history of its own, and the 
other so new as to have none. It did strike me 
as odd that there should be a new borough, with 
new voters, and new franchises, not yet ten years 
old, in the midst of this city of London. But 
when I came to Brentford eveiy thing was 



changed. I was not in a town at all, though I 
was sun'ounded on all sides by houses. Every 
thing around me was grim and dirty enough, 
but I am supposed to have reached, politically, 
the rustic beauties of the country. Those around 
me who had votes voted for the county of Mid- 
dlesex. On the other side of the invisible bor- 
der I had just passed the poor wretch with three 
shillings a day who lived in a grimy lodging or a 
half-built hut, but who, at any rate, possessed the 
political privilege. Now I had suddenly emerged 
among the aristocrats, and quite another state of 
things prevailed. Is that a reasonable manipu- 
lation of the votes of the people ? Does that ar- 
rangement give to any man an equal share in his 
country ? And yet I fancy that the thing is so 
little thought of, that few among you are aware 
that in this way the largest class of British labor 
is excluded from the franchise in a country which 
boasts of equal representation. 

"The chief object of your first Reform Bill 
was that of realizing the very fact of representa- 
tion. Up to that time your members of the 
House of Commons were, in truth, deputies of 
the lords or of other rich men. Lord A, or Mr. 
B, or perhaps Lady C, sent whom she pleased to 
Parliament to represent this or that town, or oc- 
casionally this or that county. That absurdity 
is supposed to be past, and on evils that have 
been cured no one should dwell. But how is it 
now ? I have a list — in my memory, for I would 
not care to make out so black a catalogue in leg- 
ible letters — of forty members who have been re- 
turned to the present House of Commons by the 
single voices of influential persons. What will 
not forty voices do even in your Parliament? 
And if I can count forty, how many more must 
there be of which I have not heard?" Then 
there was a voice calling upon the Senator to 
name those men, and other voices denying the 
fact. "I will name no one," said the Senator. 
"How oould I tell what noble friend I might 
put on a stool of repentance by doing so." And 
he looked round on the gentlemen on the plat- 
fonn behind him. "But I defy any member of 
Parliament here present to get up and say that 
it is not so." Then he paused a moment. " And 
if it be so, is that rational ? Is that in accord- 
ance with the theory of representation as to which 
you have all been so ardent, and which you pro- 
fess to be so dear to you? Is the country not 
overridden by the aristocracy when Lord Lambs- 
wool not only possesses his own hereditary seat 
in the House of Lords, but also has a seat for his 
eldest son in the House of Commons ?" 

Then a voice from the back called out, "What 
the deuce is all that to you ?" 



CHAPTER LXXVIII. 

THE senator's LECTURE, — NO. II. 

"ly I see a man hungry in the street," said 
the Senator, instigated by the question asked him 
at the end of the last chapter, ' ' and give him a 
bit of bread, I don't do it for my own sake, but 
for his. " Up to this time the Britishers around 
him on the platfonn, and those in the benches 
near to him, had received what he said with a 
good grace. The allusion to Lord Lambswool 
had not been pleasant to them, but it had not 



184 



THE AMEKICAN SENATOR. 



been worse than they had expected. But now 
they were displeased. They did not like being 
told that they were taking a bit of bread from 
him in their own political destitution. They did 
not like that he, an individual, should presume 
that he had prayer to offer to them as a nation. 
And yet, had they argued it out in their own 
minds, they would have seen that the Senator's 
metaphor was appropriate. His purpose in being 
there was to give advice, and theirs in coming to 
listen to it. But it was unfortunate. "When 
I ventured to come before you here, I made all 
this my business," continued the Senator. Then 
he paused, and glanced round the hall with a de- 
fiant look. '"^And now about your House of 
Lords," he went on. "I have not much to say 
about the House of Lords, because, if I under- 
stand rightly the feeling of this country, it is al- 
ready condemned." " No such thing !" "Who 
told you that ?" "You know nothing about it !" 
These, and other words of curt denial, came 
from the distant corners, and a slight murmur of 
disapprobation was heard even from the seats on 
the platform. Then Lord Drummond got up 
and begged that there might be silence. Mr. 
Gotobed had come there to tell them his views, 
and as they had come there expressly to listen to 
him, they could not without impropriety inter- 
rupt him. "That such will be the feeling of the 
country before long," continued the Senator, "I 
think no one can doubt who has learned how to 
look to the signs of the times in such matters. 
Is it possible that the theory of an hereditary leg- 
islature can be defended with reason ? For a 
legislature you want the best and wisest of your 
people." "You don't get them in America," 
said a voice which was beginning to be recog- 
nized. " We try, at any rate," said the Senatoi'. 
" Now, is it possible that an accident of birth 
should give you excellence and wisdom ? What 
is the result ? Not a tenth of your hereditary 
legislators assemble in the beautiful hall that you 
have built for them ; and of that tenth, the great- 
er half consists of counselore of state Avho have 
been placed there in order that the business of 
the country may not be brought to a stand-still. 
Your hereditary chamber is a fiction, supplement- 
ed by the element of election — the election rest- 
ing generally in the very bosom of the House of 
Commons." On this subject, although he had 
promised to be short, he said much more, which 
was received for the most part in silence. But 
when he ended by telling them that they could 
have no right to call themselves a free people till 
every legislator in the country was elected by the 
votes of the people, another murmur was heard 
through the hall. 

"I told you," said he, waxing more and more 
energetic, as he felt the opposition which he was 
bound to overcome, "that what I had to say to 
you would not be pleasant. If you can not en- 
dure to hear me, let us break up and go away. 
In that case I must tell my friends at home that 
the tender ears of a British audience can not 
bear rough words from American lips. And yet, 
if you think of it, we have borne rough words 
from you, and have borne them with good-hu- 
mor." Again he paused, but as none rose from 
their seats he went on: "Proceeding from he- 
reditary legislature, I come to hereditary proper- 
ty. It is natural that a man should wish to give 
to his children after his death the property which 



he has enjoyed during their life. But let me ask 
any man here who has not been born an eldest 
son himself, whether it is natural that he should 
wish to give it all to one son ? Would any man 
think "of doing so, by the light of his own reason 
—out of his own head, as we say ? Would any 
man be so unjust to those who are equal in his 
love, were he not constrained by law, and by 
custom more iron-handed even than the law ?" 
The Senator had here made a mistake very com- 
mon with Americans, and a great many voices 
were on him at once. " What law ?" " There 
is no law!" "You know nothing about it!" 
' ' Go back and learn ! " 

"What!" cried the Senator, coming forward 
to the extreme verge of the platform and putting 
down his foot as though there were strength 
enough in his leg to crush them all, " will any 
one have the hardihood to tell me that proper- 
ty in this country is not affected by primogeni- 
ture? 'Go back and learn the law!' I know the 
law, perhaps, better than most of you. Do you 
mean to assert that my Lord Lambswool can 
leave his land to whom he pleases ? I tell you 
that he has no more than a life-interest in it, and 
that his son will only have the same." Then an 
eager Briton on the platform got up and whis- 
pered to the Senator for a few minutes, during 
which the murmuring was continued. "My 
friend. reminds me," said the Senator, "that the 
matter is one of custom rather than law ; and I 
am obliged to him. But the custom, which is 
damnable and cruel, is backed by law which is 
equally so. If I have land, I can not only give it 
all to my eldest son, but I can assure the right 
of primogeniture to his son, though he be not 
j'et born. No one, I think, will deny that there 
must be a special law to enable me to commit 
an injustice so unnatural as that. 

" Hence it comes that you still suffer under 
an aristocracy almost as dominant, and in its es- 
sence as irrational, as that which created feudal- 
ism." The gentlemen collected on the platform 
looked at each other and smiled, perhaps failing 
to catch the exact meaning of the Senator's 
words. "A lord here has a power, as a lord, 
which he can not himself fathom, and of which 
he daily makes an unconscious but most dele- 
terious use. He is brought up to think it natu- 
ral that he should be a tyrant. The proclivities 
of his order are generous, and as a rule he gives 
more than he takes; but he is as injurious in 
the one process as in the other. Your ordinary 
Briton, in his dealing with a lord, expects pay- 
ment in some shape for every repetition of the 
absurd title ; and payment is made. The titled 
aristocrat pays dearer for his horse, dearer for 
his coat, dearer for his servant, than other peo- 
ple ; but in return he exacts much which no oth- 
er person can get. Knowing his own magna- 
nimity, he expects that his word shall not be 
questioned. If I may be allowed, I will tell a 
little story as to one of the most generous gen- 
tlemen I have had the happiness of meeting in 
this country, which will explain my meaning." 

Then, without mentioning names, he told the 
story of Lord Rufford, Goarly, and Scrobby, in 
such a way as partly to redeem himself with his 
audience. He acknowledged how absolutely he 
had been himself befooled, and how he had been 
done out of his money by misplaced sympathy. 
He made Mrs. Goarly's goose immortal, and in 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



185 



imitating the indignation of Runce, the fanner, 
and Bean, the gamekeeper, showed that he was 
master of considerable humor. But he brought 
it all round at last to his own purpose, and end- 
ed this episode of his lecture by his view of the 
absurdity and illegality of British hunting. "I 
can talk about it to you," he said, "and you will 
know whether I am speaking the truth. But 
when I get home among my own people, and re- 
peat my lecture there, as I shall do — with some 
little additions as to the good things I have 
found here, from which your ears may be spared 
— I shall omit this story, as I know it will be 
impossible to make my countrymen believe that 
a hundred harum-scarum tomboys may ride at 
their pleasure over every man's land, destroying 
ci'ops and trampling down fences, going, if their 
vermin leads them there, with reckless violence 
into the sweet domestic garden of your country 
residences; and that no one can either stop 
them or punish them ! An American will be- 
lieve much about the wonderful wa3^s of his Brit- 
ish cousin, but no American will be got to be- 
lieve that till he sees it. 

" I find, " said he, " that this irrationality, as I 
have ventured to call it, runs through all your 
professions. We will take the Church, as being 
the highest, at any rate, in its objects." Then 
he recapitulated all those arguments against our 
mode of dispensing Church patronage with which 
the reader is already familiar if he has attended 
to the Senator's earlier words as given in this 
chronicle. "In other lines of business there is, 
even here in England, some attempt made to get 
the man best suited for the work he has to do. 
If any one wants a domestic servant, he sets 
about the work of getting a proper person in a 
very determined manner indeed. But for the 
care — or, as you call it, the cure — of his soul, he 
has to put up with the man who has bought the 
right to minister to his wants ; or with him whose 
father wants a means of living for his younger 
son — the elder being destined to swallow all the 
family property ; or with him who has become 
sick of drinking his wine in an Oxford college ; 
or with him, again, who has pleaded his cause 
successfully with a bishop's daughter. " It is not 
often that the British public is angered by abuse 
of the Church, and this part of the lecture was 
allowed to pass without strong marks of disap- 
probation. 

"I have been at some trouble," he continued, 
"to learn the very complex rules by which your 
army is now regulated, and those by which it 
was regulated a very short time since. Unhap- 
pily for me, I have found it in a state of transi- 
tion, and nothing is so difficult to a stranger's 
comprehension as a transition state of affairs. 
But this I can see plainly — that every improve- 
ment which is made is received by those whom 
it most concerns with a horror which amounts 
almost to madness. So lovely to the ancient 
British, well - born, feudal instinct is a state of 
unreason that the very absence of any principle 
endears to it institutions which no one can at- 
tempt to support by argument. Had such a 
thing not existed as the Mght to purchase mili- 
tary promotion, would any satirist have been list- 
ened to who had suggested it as a possible out- 
come of British irrationality? Think what it 
carries with it ! The man who has proved him- 
self fit to serve his country by serving it in twen- 



ty foughten fields, who has bled for his country 
and perhaps preserved his country, shall rot in 
obscurity because he has no money to buy pro- 
motion ; whereas the young dandy who has done 
no more than glitter along the pavements with 
his sword and spurs shall have the command of 
men — because lie has so many thousand dollars 
in his pocket." 

"Buncombe!" shouted the inimical voice. 

"But is it Buncombe?" asked the intrepid 
Senator. " Will any one who knows what he is 
talking about say that I am describing a state 
of things which did not exist yesterday ? I will 
acknowledge that this has been rectified, though 
I see symptoms of relapse. A fault that has 
been mended is a fault no longer. But what I 
speak of now is the disruption of all concord 
in your army, caused by the reform which has 
forced itself upon you. All loyalty has gone ; 
all that love of his profession which should be 
the breath of a soldier's nostrils. A fine body 
of fighting heroes is broken-hearted, not because 
injury has been done to them or to any of them, 
but because the system had become peculiarly 
British by reason of its special absurdity, and 
therefore peculiarly dear." 

"Buncombe!" again said the voice, and the 
word was now repeated by a dozen voices. 

"Let any one show me that it is Buncombe. 
If I say what is untrue, do with me what you 
please. If I am ignorant, set me right and 
laugh at me. But if what I say is true, then 
your interruption is surely a sign of imbecility. 
I say that the change was forced upon you by 
the feeling of the people, but that its very ex- 
pediency has demoralized the army, because the 
army was irrational. 

"And how is it with the navy? What am I 
to believe when I hear so many conflicting state- 
ments among yourselves ?" During this last ap- 
peal, however, the noise at the back of the hall 
had become so violent, that the Senator was 
hardly able to make his voice heard by those 
immediately around him. He himself did not 
quail for a moment, going on with his gestures, 
and setting down his foot as though he were still 
confident in his purpose of overcoming all oppo- 
sition. He had not much above half done yet. 
There were the lawyers before him, and the 
Civil Service, and the railways, and the com- 
merce of the country, and the laboring classes. 
But Lord Drummond and others near him were 
becoming terrified, thinking that something worse 
might occur unless an end was put to the pro- 
ceedings. Then a superintendent of police came 
in and whispei'ed to his lordship. A crowd was 
collecting itself in Piccadilly and St. James's 
Street, and perhaps the Senator had better be 
withdrawn. The officer did not think that he 
could safely answer for the consequences if this 
were carried on for a quarter of an hour longer. 
Then Lord Drummond, having meditated for a 
moment, touched the Senator's arm and suggest- 
ed a withdi"awal into a side-room for a minute. 
"Mr. Gotobed," he said, "a little feeling has 
been excited, and we had better put an end to 
this for the present. " 

"Put an end to it?" 

"I am afraid nve must. The police are be- 
coming alarmed." 

"Oh, of course; you know best. In our 
country a man is allowed to express himself, un- 



186 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



less he utters either blasphemy or calumny. But 
I am in your hands, and of course you must do 
as you please." Then he sat down in a corner 
and wiped his brow. Lord Drummond returned 
to the hall, and there endeavored to explain that 
the lecture was over for that night. The row 
was so great that it did not matter much what 
he said, but the people soon understood that the 
American Senator was not to appear before them 
again. 

It was not much after nine o'clock when the 
Senator reached his hotel, Lord Drummond hav- 
ing accompanied him thither in a cab. " Good- 
night, Mr. Gotobed," said his lordship. "I can 
not tell you how much I respect both your pur- 
pose and your courage ; but I don't know how 
far it is wise for a man to tell any other man, 
much less a nation, of all his faults." 

"You English tell us of ours pretty often," said 
the Senator. 

When he found himself alone he thought of it 
all, giving himself no special credit for what he 
had done, acknowledging to himself that he had 
often chosen his words badly and expressed him- 
self imperfectly, but declaring to himself through 
it all that the want of reason among Britishers 
was so great that no one ought to treat them as 
wholly responsible beings. 



CHAPTER LXXIX. 

THE LAST DATS OF MART MASTERS. 

The triumph of Mary Masters was something 
more than a nine days' wonder to the people of 
Dillsborough. They had all known Larry Twen- 
tyman's intentions and aspirations, and had gen- 
erally condemned the young lady's obduracy, 
thinking, and not being slow to say, that she 
would live to repent her perversity. Runciman, 
who had a thoroughly warm-hearted friendship 
for both the attorney and Larry, had sometimes 
been very severe on Mary. " She wants a touch 
of hardship," he would say, "to bring her to. 
If Larry would just give her a cold shoulder for 
six months, she'd be ready to jump into liis 
arms." And Dr. Nupper had been heard to re- 
mark that she might go farther and fare worse. 
"If it were my girl, I'd let her know all about 
it," Ribbs, the butcher, had said, in the bosom of 
his own family. When it was found that Mr, 
Surtees, the curate, was not to be the fortunate 
man, the matter was more inexplicable than ever. 
Had it then been declared that the owner of 
Hoppet Hall had proposed to her, all these 
tongues would have been silenced, and the refus- 
al even of Larry Twentyman would have been 
justified. But what was to be said and what 
was to be thought when it was known that she 
was to be the mistress of Bragton ? For a day 
or two the prosperity of the attorney was hardly 
to be endured by his neighbors. When it was 
first known that the stewardship of the property 
was to go back into his hands, his rise in the 
world was for a time slightly prejudicial to his 
popularity ; but this greater stroke of luck, this 
latter promotion, which would place him so much 
higher in Dillsborough than even his father or his 
grandfather had ever been, was a great trial of 
friendship. 

Mrs. Masters felt it all very keenly. All pos- 



sibility for reproach against either her husbarid 
or her step-daughter was, of course, at an end. 
Even she did not pretend to say that Mary ought 
to refuse the squire. Nor, as far as Mary was 
concerned, could she have further recourse to the 
evils of Ushanting, and the peril of social inter- 
course with ladies and gentlemen. It was man- 
ifest that Mary was to be a lady with a big 
house, and many servants, and, no doubt, a car- 
riage and horses. But still Mrs. Masters was 
not quite silenced. She had daughters of her 
own, and would solace herself by declaring to 
them, to her husband, and to her special inti- 
mate friends, that of course they would see no 
more of Mary. It wasn't for them to expect to 
be asked to Bragton, and as for herself she would 
much rather not. She knew her own place and 
what she was born to, and wasn't going to let 
her own children spoil themselves and ruin their 
chances by dining at seven o'clock, and being 
waited upon by servants at every turn. Thank 
God, her girls could make their own beds, and 
she hoped they might continue to do so, at any 
rate, till they had houses of their own. 

And there seemed to Dillsborough to be some 
justification for all this in the fact that Mary waa 
now living at Bragton, and that she did not ap- 
parently intend to return to her father's house. 
At this time Reginald Morton himself was still at 
Hoppet Hall, and had declared that he would re- 
main there till after his marriage. Lady Ushant 
was living at the big house, which was hence- 
forth to be her home. Mary was her visitor, and 
was to be married from Bragton, as though Brag- 
ton were her residence rather than the squire's. 
The plan had originated with Reginald ; and 
when it had been hinted to him that Mary would 
in this way seem to slight her father's home, he 
had proposed that all the Masterses should come 
and stay at Bragton previous to the ceremony. 
Mrs. Masters yielded as to Mary's residence, say- 
ing with mock humility that of course she had 
no room fit to give a marriage -feast in to the 
Squire of Bragton ; but she was steadfast in say- 
ing to her husband, who made the proposition to 
her, that she would stay at home. Of course 
she would be present at the wedding ; but she 
would not trouble the like of Lady Ushant by 
any prolonged visiting. 

The wedding was to take place about the be- 
ginning of May, and all these things were being 
considered early in April. At this time one of 
the girls was always at Bragton, and Mary had 
done her best, but hitherto in A'ain, to induce her 
step-mother to come to her. When she heard 
that there was a doubt as to the accomplish- 
ment of the plan for the coming of the whole 
family, she drove herself into Dillsborough in the 
old phaeton, and then pleaded her cause for her- 
self. "Mamma," she said, "won't you come 
with the girls and papa on the 29th ?" 

"I think not, my dear. The girls can go,, 
if they like it. But it will be more fitting for 
papa and me to come to the church on the morn- 
ing." 

" Why moi'e fitting, mamma ?" 

"Well, my dear ; it will." 

' ' Dear mamma, why — why ?" 

" Of course, my dear, I am very glad that you 
are going to get such a lift," 

" My lift is marrying the man I love." 

" That of course is all right. I have nothing 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



187 



on earth to say against it. And I will say that 
through it all you have behaved as a young wom- 
an should. I don't think you meant to throw 
yourself at him." 

"Mamma!" 

"But as it has turned up, you have to go one 
way and me another." 

"No!" 

"But it must be so. The Squire of Bragton 
is the squire, and his wife must act accordingly. 
Of course you'll be visiting at Rufford and Hamp- 
ton Wick, and all the places. I know very well 
who I am, and what I came from. I'm not a 
bit ashamed of myself, but I'm not going to stick 
myself up with my betters." 

"" Then, mamma, I shall come and be married 
from here." 

"It's too late for that now, my dean" 

"No, it is not." And then a couple of tears 
began to roll down from her eyes. "I won't be 
married without your coming in to see me the 
night before, and being with me in the morning 
when I dress. Haven't I been a good child to 
you, mamma ?" Then the step-mother began to 
cry also. " Haven't I, mamma ?" 

"Yes, my dear," whimpered the poor woman. 

"And won't you be my mamma to the last — 
won't you ?" And she threw her arms round her 
step-mother's neck and kissed her. ' ' I won't go 
one way, and you another. He doesn't wish it. 
It is quite different from that. I don't care a 
straw for Hampton Wick and Rufford, but I will 
never be separated from you and the girls and 
papa. Say you will come, mamma. I will not 
let you go till you say you will come. " Of course 
she had her own way, and Mrs. Masters had 
to feel with a sore heart that she also must go 
out Ushanting. She knew that, in spite of her 
domestic powers, she would be stricken dumb 
in the drawing-room at Bragton, and was un- 
happy. 

Mary had another scheme, in which she was 
less fortunate. She took it into her head that 
Larry Twentyman might possibly be induced to 
come to her wedding. She had heard how he 
had ridden and gained honor for himself on the 
day that the hounds killed their fox at Norring- 
ton, and thought that perhaps her own message 
to him had induced him so far to return to his 
old habits. And now she longed to ask him, for 
her sake, to be happy once again. If any girl 
ever loved the man she was going to marry with 
all her heart, this girl loved Reginald Morton. 
He had been to her, when her love was hopeless, 
so completely tlie master of her heart that she 
could not realize the possibility of affection for 
another. But yet she was pervaded by a tender- 
ness of feeling in regard to Larry which was love 
also, though love altogether of another kind. 
She thought of him daily. His future well-being 
was one of the cares of her life. That her hus- 
band might be able to call him a friend was 
among her prayers. Had any body spoken ill 
of him in her presence, she would have resented 
it hotly. Had she been told that another girl 
had consented to be his wife, she would have 
thought that girl to be happy in her destiny. 
When she heard that he was leading a wretched, 
moping, aimless life for her sake, her heart was 
sad within her. It was necessary to the comple- 
tion of her happiness that Larry should recover 
his tone of mind and be her friend. " Reg," she 



said, leaning on his arm out in the park, "I 
want you to do me a favor." 

"Watch and chain?" 

"Don't be an idiot! Yon know I've got a 
watch and chain." 

"Some girls like two. To. have the wooden 
bridge pulled down and a stone one built ?" 

"If any one touched a morsel of that sacred 
timber, he should be banished from Bragton for- 
evei". I want you to ask Mr. Twentyman to 
come to our wedding." 

" Who's to do it ? Who's to hell the cat ?" 

"You." 

" I would sooner fight a Saracen, or ride such 
a horse as killed that poor major. Joking apai't, 
I don't see how it is to be done. Why do yon 
wish it?" 

"Because I am so fond of him." 

"Oh— indeed!" 

"If you're a goose, I'll hit you! I am fond 
of him. Next to you and my own people, and 
Lady Ushant, I like him best in all the world." 

"What a pity you couldn't have put him up a 
little higher!" 

"I used to think so too, only I couldn't. If 
any body loved you as he did me — offered you 
every thing he had in the world — thought that 
you were the best in the world — would have given 
his life for you, would not you be grateful?" 

" I don't know that I need wish to ask such a 
person to my wedding." 

"Yes, you would, if in that way you could 
build a bridge to bring him back to happiness. 
And, Reg, though you used to despise him — " 

"I never despised him." 

' ' A little, I think — before you knew him. But 
he is not despicable." 

"Not at all, my dear." 

" He is honest and good, and has a real heart 
of his own." 

" I am afraid he has parted with that." 

"You know what I mean, and if you won't 
be serious I shall think there is no seriousness in 
you. I want you to tell me how it can be done." 

Then he was serious, and tried to explain to 
her that he could not very well do what she want- 
ed. " He is your friend, you know, rather than 
mine ; but if you like to write to him, you can do 
so." 

This seemed to her to be very difficult, and, 
as she thought more of it, almost impossible. A 
written letter remains, and may be taken as evi- 
dence of so much more than it means. But a 
word sometimes may be spoken which, if it be 
well spoken — if assurance of its truth be given by 
the tone and by the eye of the speaker — shall do 
so much more than any letter, and shall yet only 
remain with the hearer as the remembrance of 
the scent of a flower remains. Nevertheless, she 
did at last write the letter, and brought it to her 
husband. " Is it necessary that I should see it ?" 
he asked. 

"Not absolutely necessary," 

"Then send it without." 

"But I should like you to see what I have 
said. You know about things, and if it is too 
much or too little, you can tell me." Then he 
read her letter, which ran as follows : 

"Deak Mr. Twentyman, — Perhaps you 
have heard that we are to be married on Thurs- 
day, May 6th. I do so wish that you would 



188 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



come. It would make me so much happier on 
that day. We shall be very quiet ; and if you 
would come to the house at eleven, you could go 
across the park with them all to the church, I 
am to be taken in a carriage because of my fin- 
ery. Then there will be a little breakfast. Papa 
and mamma and Dolly and Kate would be so glad 
— and so would Mr. Morton. But none of them 
will be half so glad as your old, old, affectionate 
friend, Maut Masters." 

" If that don't fetch him," said Reginald, " he 
is a poorer creature than I take him to be." 

" But I may send it ?" 

"Certainly you may send it." And so the 
letter Avas sent across to Chowton Farm. 

But the letter did not " fetch " him, nar am I 
prepared to agree with Mr. Morton that he was 
a poor creature for not being " fetched." There 
are things which the heart of a man should bear 
without whimpering, but which it can not bear 
in public with that appearance of stoical indiffer- 
ence which the manliness of a man is supposed 
to require. Were he to go, should he be jovial 
before the wedding-party, or should he be sober 
and saturnine? Should he appear to have for- 
gotten his love, or should he go about love-lorn 
among the wedding guests ? It was impossible 
— at any rate, impossible as yet — that he should 
fall into that state of almost brotherly regard 
which it was so natural that she should desire. 
But as he had determined to forgive her, he went 
across that afternoon to the house and was the 
bearer of his own answer. He asked Mrs. Hop- 
kins, who came to the door, whether she were 
alone, and was then shown into an empty room 
where he waited for her. She came to him as 
quickly as she could, leaving Lady Ushant in the 
middle of the page she was reading, and feeling, 
as she tripped down -stairs, that the color was 
rushing to her face. "You will come, Lariy," 
she said. 

"No, Miss Masters." 

"Let me be Mary till I am Mrs. Morton," 
she said, trying to smile. " I was always Mary." 
And then she burst into tears. "Why — why 
won't you come ? ' 

" I should only stalk about like a ghost. I 
couldn't be merry as a man should be at a wed- 
ding. I don't see how a man is to do such a 
thing." She looked up into his face imploi-ing 
him — not to come, for that she felt now to be 
impossible — but imploring him to express in 
some way forgiveness of the sin she had com- 
mitted against him. " But I shall think of you 
and shall wish you well." 

"And after that we shall be friends?" 

"By-and-by — if he pleases." 

"He will please — he does please. Of course 
he saw what I wrote to you. And now, Larry, 
if I have ever treated you badly, say that you 
pardon me." 

"If I had known it," he said. 

"How could I tell you, till he had spoken? 
And yet I knew it myself! It has been so — oh, 
— ever so long ! What could I do ? You will 
say that you will forgive me." 

' ' Yes ; ' I will-say that. " 

"And you will not' go away from Chowton?" 

" Oh no ! They tell me I ought to stay here, 
and I suppose I shall stay. I thought I'd just 
come over and say a word. I'm going away to- 



morrow for a month. There is a fellow has got 
some fishing in Ireland. Good-bye." 

" Good-bye, Larry." 

"And I thought perhaps you'd take this now." 
Then he brought out from his pocket a little 
ruby ring which he had carried often in' his 
pocket to the attorney's house, thinking that per- 
haps there might come the happy hour in which 
he could get her to accept it. But the hour had 
never come as yet, and the ring had remained in 
the little drawer beneath his looking-glass. It 
need hardly be said that she now accepted the 
gift. 



CHAPTER LXXX. 



CONCLUSION. 



The Senator for Mikewa — whose name- we 
have taken for a book which might perhaps have 
been better called "The Chronicle of a Winter 
at Dillsborough " — did not stay long in London 
after the unfortunate close of his lectui'e. He 
was a man not veiy pervious to criticism, nor 
afraid of it, but he did not like the treatment 
he had received at St. James's Hall, nor the re- 
marks which his lecture produced in the news- 
papers. He was angry because people were un- 
reasonable with him, which was surely unreason- 
able in him who accused Englishmen generally 
of want of reason. One ought to take it as a 
matter of course that a bull should use his horns, 
and a wolf his teeth. The Senator read every 
thing that was said of him, and then wrote nu- 
merous letters to the different journals which 
had condemned him. Had any one accused 
him of an untruth? Or had his inaccuracies 
been glaring? Had he not always expressed 
his readiness to acknowledge his own mistake if 
conA'icted of ignorance ? But when he was told 
that he had persistently trodden upon all the 
corns of his English cousins, he declared that 
corns were evil things which should be abolish- 
ed, and that with corns such as these there was 
no mode of abolition so efficacious as treading 
on them. 

"I am Sony that you should have encount- 
ered any thing so unpleasant," Lord Drummond 
said to him, when he went to bid adieu to his 
friend at the Foreign Office. 

"And I am sorry too, my lord — for your sake 
rather than my own. A man is in a bad case 
who can not endure to hear his ff^ults." 

' ' Periiaps you take our national sins a little 
too much for granted." 

"I don't think so, my lord. If you knew me 
to be wrong, you would not be so sore with me. 
Nevertheless, I am under deep obligation for 
kind-hearted hospitality. If an American can 
make up his mind to crack up every thing he 
sees here, there is no part of the world in which 
he can get along better." He had already writ- 
ten a long letter home to his friend, Mr. Josiah 
Scroome, and had impartially sent to that gen- 
tleman, not only his own lecture, but also a large 
collection of the criticisms made on it. A few 
weeks afterward he took his departure, and when 
we last heard of him was thundering in the Sen- 
ate against certain practices on the part of his 
own country which he thought to be unjust to 
other nations. Don Quixote was not more just 
than the Senator, or more philanthropic — nor 



THE AMEKICAN SENATOE. 



189 



perhaps more apt to wage war against the wind- 
mills. 

Having in this our last chapter given the place 
of honor to the Senator, we must now say a part- 
ing word as to those countrymen of our own who 
have figured in our pages. Lord EufiFord mar- 
ried Miss Penge, of course, and used the lady's 
fortune in buying the property of Sir John Pure- 
foy. We may probably be safe in saying that 
the acquisition added very little to his happiness. 
What difference can it make to a man whether 
he has forty or fifty thousand pounds a year — 
or, at any rate, to such a man ? Perhaps Miss 
Penge herself was an acquisition. He did not 
hunt so often or shoot so much, and was seen in 
church once at least on every Sunday. In a 
very short time his friends perceived that a very 
great change had come over him. He was grow- 
ing fat, and soon disliked the trouble of getting 
up early to go to a distant meet ; and, before a 
year or two had passed away, it had become an 
understood thing that in country houses he was 
not one of the men who went down at night into 
the smoking-room in a short dressing-coat and a 
picturesque cap. Miss Penge had done all this. 
He had had his period of pleasure, and no doubt 
the change was desirable; but he sometimes 
thought with regret of the promise Arabella Tre- 
foil had made him, that she would never inter- 
fere with his gratification. 

At Dillsborough every thing during the sum- 
mer after the squire's marriage fell back into its 
usual routine. The greatest change made there 
was in the residence of the attorney, who with 
his family went over to live at Hoppet Hall, giv- 
ing up his old house to a young man from Nor- 
rington, who had become his partner, but keep- 
ing the old office for his business. Mrs. Mas- 
ters did, I think, like the honor and glory of the 
big house, but she would never admit that she 
did. And when she was constrained once or 
twice in the year to give a dinner to her step- 
daughter's husband and Lady Ushant, that, I 
think, was really a period of discomfort to her. 
When at Bragton she could, at any rate, be qui- 
et, and Mary's caressing care almost made the 
place pleasant to her. 

Mr. Eunciman prospers at The Bush, though 
he has entirely lost his best customer, Lord Euf- 
ford. But the U. E. U. is still strong, in spite of 
the philosophers ; and in the hunting season the 
boxes of The Bush Inn are full of horses. The 
club goes on without much change, Mr. Masters 
being very regular in his attendance, undeterred 
by the grandeur of his new household. And 
Larry is always there, with increased spirit, for 
he has dined two or three times lately at Hamp- 
ton Wick, having met young Hampton at the 
squire's house at Bragton. On this point Pred 
Botsey was for a time very jealous ; but he found 
that Larry's popularity was not to be shaken, 
and now is very keen in pushing an intimacy 
with the owner of Chowton Farm. 

Perhaps the most stirring event in the neigh- 
borhood has been the retirement of Captain Glo- 
max from the post of master. When the season 
was over, he made an application to Lord Euf- 
ford respecting certain stable and kennel ^c- 
penses, which that nobleman snubbed very blunt- 
ly. Thereupon the captain intimated to the 
committee that unless some advances \^re made 
he should go. The committee refused, and 



thereupon the captain went — not altogether to 
the dissatisfaction of the farmers, with whom an 
itinerant master is seldom altogether popular. 
Then for a time there was great gloom in the U. 
E. U. What hunting man or woman does not 
know the gloom which comes over a hunting 
county when one master goes before another is 
ready to step in his shoes ? There had been a 
hope, a still growing hope, that Lord EufFord 
would come forward at any such pinch ; but, 
since Miss Penge had come to the front, that 
hope had altogether vanished. There was a 
word said at EufFord on the subject, but Miss 
Penge — or Lady EufFord, as she was then — at 
once put her foot on the project and extinguished 
it. Then, when despair was imminent, old Mr. 
Hamptojj gave way, and young Hampton came 
forward, acknowledged on all sides as the man 
for the place. A master always does appear at 
last ; though for a time it appears that the king- 
dom must come to an end because no one will 
consent to sit on the throne. 

Perhaps the most loudly triumphant man in 
Dillsborough was Mr. Mainwaring, the parson, 
when he heard of the discomfiture of Senator 
Gotobed. He could hardly restrain his joy^ and 
confided, first to Dr. Niipper and then to Mr. 
Eunciman, his opinion, that of all the blackguards 
that had ever put their foot in Dillsborough, that 
vile Yankee was the worst. Mr. Gotobed was 
no more a Yankee than M'as the parson himself; 
but of any distinction among the citizens of the 
United States Mr. Mainwaring knew very little. 

A word or two more must be said of our dear 
friend, Larry Twentyman ; for in finishing this 
little story we must own that he has in truth 
been our hero. He went away on his fishing ex- 
pedition, and when he came back the girl of his 
heart had become Mrs. Moi'ton. Hunting had 
long been over then, but the great hunting diffi- 
culty was in course of solution, and Larry took 
his part in the matter. When there was a sug- 
gestion as to a committee of three — than which 
nothing for hunting purposes can be much worse 
— there was a question whether he should not be 
one of them. This nearly killed both the Bot- 
seys. The evil thing was prevented by the time- 
ly pressure put on old Mr. Hampton ; but the 
excitement did our friend Larry much good. 
"Bicycle" and the other mare were at once 
summered with the greatest care, and it is gen- 
erally understood that young Hampton means to 
depend upon Larry very much in regard to the 
EufFord side of the country. Larry has bought 
Goarly's two fields, Goarly having altogether van- 
ished from those parts, and is supposed to have 
Dillsborough Wood altogether in his charge. 
He is fi-equently to be seen at Hoppet Hall, call- 
ing there every Saturday to take down the attor- 
ney to the Dillsborough club, as was his habit 
of old ; but it would perhaps be premature to say 
that there are very valid grounds for the hopes 
which Mrs. Masters already entertains in refer- 
ence to Kate. Kate is still too young and child- 
ish to justify any prediction in that quarter. 

What further need be said as to Eeginald and 
his happy bride ? Very little ; except that in the 
course of her bridal tour she did gradually find 
words to give him a true und accurate account 
of all her own feelings from the time at which 
he first asked her to walk with him across the 
bridge over tlie Dill and look at the old place. 



190 



THE AMERICAN SENATOR. 



They had both passed their childish years there, 

but could have but little thought that they were 

destined then to love and grow old together. ' ' I 

was longing, longing, longing to come," she said. 

"And why didn't you come?" 

" How little you know about girls ! Of course 

I had to go with the one I — I — I — ; well, with 

the one I did not love down to the very soles of 

his feet." And then there was the journey with 

the parrot. "I rather liiied the bird, I don't 

know that you said very much, but I think you 

would have said less if there had been no bird." 

"In fact, I have been a fool all along." 

"You weren't a fool when you took me out 

through the orchard and caught me when I 

jumped over the wall. Do you remember when 

you asked me, all of a sudden, whether I should 

itke to be your wife? You weren't a fool then." 

"But }'ou knew what was coming." 

'■'■ Not a bit of it. I knew it wasn't coming. 



I had quite made up my mind about that. I was 
as sure of it — oh, as sure of it as I am that I've 
got you now. And then it came — like a great 
thunder-clap." 

"A thunder-clap, Mary!" 

"Well — yes. I wasn't quite sure at first. 
You might have been laughing at me — mightn't 
you?" 

"Just the kind of joke for me!" 

*' How was I to understand it all in a moment? 
And you made me repeat all those words. I be- 
lieved it then, or I shouldn't have said them. I 
knew that must be serious." And so she deified 
him, and sat at his feet looking up into his eyes, 
and fooled him for a while into the most perfect 
happiness that a man ever knows in this world. 
But she was not altogether happy herself till she 
had got Larry to come to her at the house at 
Bragton and swear to her that he would be her 
friend. 



THE END. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 




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